


Dear Boy

by 221Btls



Series: Dear Boy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunk Sherlock, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Mary died twenty years ago, Mary was like ACD Mary not BBC Mary, Original Character(s), POV Sherlock Holmes, Retirementlock, Second kiss and more, Slow Build, Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:01:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 109,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1420666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have been best friends for more than half their lives.  As they realize the years before them are waning, they confess long held desires, setting in motion the romantic relationship that should have always been. </p><p>Love is love at any age.</p><p>*********</p><p>“May I?”  he asks.  I open my mouth to speak.  It bobs about like a fish out of water, but still no sound comes out.  Nothing in my brain seems to connect; perhaps it is from pure instinct that I lean back into him.  Our mouths meet, this time with equal desire.  John parts my lips with his tongue and seeks out the warmth inside.  I have had my own tongue inside my mouth for my entire life, and I can assure anyone who wants to know it has never caused me to feel what his is causing me to feel right now. </p><p>I officially stop breathing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I have no more regrets

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Boy is a song off of Paul and Linda McCartney's album Ram.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One bucket list and two regrets.

****

“You take good care of him Uncle Sherlock!”  
  
I smile at Katie from where I sit, not needing to say anything since I already said my goodbyes. I know she has little doubt I will do my best to see John takes good care of himself, though admittedly through the years far too often it has been the other way around.   
  
Katie is 22 now and I see both her parents’ features on her face: generous cheekbones like her mother, thin lips and warm eyes like her father. It is not an unattractive combination. Tall and slender, Katie towers over John, her lithe body giving her a grace neither her mother nor father ever possessed. Where the height came from I’ll never know, perhaps from a mutant gene recessed very…very deep. 

I know it is hard for her to leave after visiting him here in Wales. I honestly have no idea whether it is due to no longer having family nearby, or because of a maternal instinct to take care of her widowed father. My guess (and I so rarely guess) is it is a combination of the two.

“Bye, love. Please drive safely and don’t forget to carry your mace. Did you finish those lessons I bought for you at the firing range? You can never be too careful you know; London has some nasty characters.” John gave Katie a tight squeeze as she stooped down to hug him.  
  
“Oh, Dad! Not everyone in London is a pervert or a serial murderer! That’s what you get from knowing Uncle Sherlock for so long.”  She winks at me over John’s shoulder.  
  
I look away, pretending to whistle, but I do not think my declaration of innocence is fooling her one bit. Though, if I may say in my defense, it is not _my_   fault John is attracted to a certain lifestyle.   
  
John stands at the door waving long after she can possibly still see him. I know it is hard for him to see her go; she is the only family he has left since Mary died when Katie was only 2 years old.

He closes the door and goes into the kitchen to make a cuppa; this is how he soothes himself when his heart has a hole. After Mary died I feared he would float away from the amount of tea he drank. Earl grey, peach, apple cinnamon, breakfast, mint; he even tried chai.  The list was endless; I never knew there so many kinds of tea. But he said if it was not tea it would be alcohol and dammit if he would follow Harry into the grave, especially with little Katie on his hands. Katie needed him. I silently added I needed him, too.

He brings his cuppa into the sitting room with him and picks up the newspaper.   
  
I watch him, worried.  This is the first time Katie visited him here and he looks almost as...I won't say despondent, for he has never revisited the depression that plagued him when we first met. But there is a sadness I have not seen since Katie moved out. He was sad, but it did not settle in his eyes so harshly; he distracted himself by trying to keep me out of trouble. Not that it always worked... but that is another story.  
  
When Mary passed, John moved into Mrs. Hudson's flat.  Mrs. Hudson met Mrs. Turner's brother and after a whirlwind romance she moved with him to Holland, subletting her flat to John. She said something about a farm where she and her new husband would raise a lucrative crop. All I know is she was quite happy and giggled a lot. 

I had offered John and Katie my spare room to save on expenses, but he adamantly refused to move in with me. He said the spare body parts in the fridge did not provide a proper environment for a toddler.   When I demanded of him what proof he had for that conclusion, he could provide me with no definitive answer.  Still, I could not get him to agree it was perfectly natural for a child to find a head in the refrigerator.  That it would encourage her toward an interest in the sciences; the world needs more female scientists.  Unable to offer a logical argument, he just spluttered, turning an odd shade of red before he gave me one of _those_ looks and strode off.

Very mature, John.

If I may say, it worked out well, the two of them living in the flat below. I could stay up all night without worrying about disturbing anyone, and John and I were able to remain friends since he was not constantly threatening to kill me.  
  
Mrs. Hudson eventually came home (she’s a spry 95 years old now) after husband number 3 died. By that time John fixed up 221c and he and Katie lived there the twenty years until Katie moved out.

Around the time Katie graduated Uni and moved in with friends, I moved out of 221b. It was purely by accident I did so. 

One day I got a knock on the door.  A Mr. Abernathy came to consult with me. I called John up to the flat; he started sitting in on more interviews as Katie got older and did not need his constant attention.  Occasionally he joined me on my cases, though he limited his involvement to the less dangerous ones. 

Mr. Abernathy lived in the countryside outside Cardiff in what he came to believe was a haunted house. He requested I live in the house with him for a month to prove he was not insane. He said I needed to live in the house that length of time before the ghost felt comfortable with my presence and would reveal itself.  
  
Normally I would not entertain such a ridiculous proposition.  It was highly unusual and the added inconvenience of being away from my own flat, and my beloved London, for such a period of time did not appeal to me. If it were not for the fact the ghost was purportedly the spirit of Zacharias Janssen, the inventor of the microscope, I would not have given it a second thought.  I felt a great need to share with Mr. Janssen his miscalculations. Yes, he created a fine instrument, but with a few minor adjustments at its inception, several major plagues could have been avoided.  

John must have seen the excitement I tried to contain, for he urged me to go.  "You'll regret it all the days of your life if you don't," he said. I looked at Mr. Abernathy's hopeful face, John's encouraging one.  I certainly did not need to ask John’s permission and I did not need his blessing, but also I did not want to leave him by himself.  Katie was now gone and though he and I were not family, our lives were intricately weaved together in such a way that I had little doubt he would be at as much of a loss without me as I without him.

John, who knows me so well, could tell what I was thinking. He nodded his head and with that soft smile usually reserved for Katie, said gently, “Go. I'll be fine. We'll text. It's only a month.”  After brief deliberation and an answering nod from me, the decision was made.

I resided at Mr. Abernathy's for the required period of time and at the end of the month, the only ghost who appeared was that of my client.  For on the 31st morning, the day I was to return to London, I discovered Mr. Abernathy dead. The only mystery larger than his cause of death was the fact he deeded his property to me.

What would I do with a cottage outside Cardiff? I wondered. But in the months’ time I lived there I developed a fondness for the rolling hills the sweeping vistas, the gentle (and sometimes not so gentle!) breezes. I found a vast array of botanicals I could only have dreamed to find in London; I developed a fascination for them I did not want to cut short. It lulled my into a lifestyle I never envisioned for myself. And even more surprising, a life that did not include John just a shout away.

 Once again John encouraged me.   
  
“In the years I've known you I've never seen you so robust, Sherlock.  You're not as young as you used to be and it's time you slow down. Try it out.  If you don't like it the flat is always here for you. ”

I deferred to his medical authority.

I knew I would miss his companionship; it seemed as if he had been a part of me my whole life.  But he assured me it would be fun to try something new (as if _that_ is a priority in my life).  He said he would visit and I would probably get tired of him and send him packing before his stay was over.  Hmphh.  Not likely.

I cannot say it displeased me when only a few months after Katie moved out John came to visit.  And did not leave.  He said he did not like living alone.  Besides, he said, he understood the charm I saw in country life.

So here I sit, watching John look pensively into his mug, his newspaper already forgotten on the arm of his chair.  What is he thinking?  I am not quite sure why I think so, but something tells me this melancholy is about more than missing Katie.

I sit here, wondering what I should say.  Wondering _if_   I should say something.  We have never been men to engage in heartfelt conversations.  We accommodate each other’s moods, understanding that the routines of our lives will carry us through whatever storms blow through.  This time though I sense he needs to talk and even if there is nothing I have to offer him, I can at least listen.

“What are you thinking, John?”

At first he does not say anything, continuing to stare into his mug. 

Finally, he speaks.

“I’m 63, Sherlock.  I’m getting old.  Hell, I _am_ old.”

I scoff.   Yes, his hair is now totally grey, the lines around his eyes are a little deeper, and he has developed a small paunch at his middle, but I cannot say he looks much older than the day we met.  He is every bit as handsome now as he was then.

He looks at me thoughtfully.  “It’s a fact of life, Sherlock.  We get old and then we die.  There’s so much I always wanted to do and never got around to.  When you’re raising a kid, especially by yourself, you get so caught up in daily life, in making sure they’re happy and healthy and they get their homework done and learn to drive…”  He pauses, appearing to reflect a lifetime of memories.  “Then all of a sudden you sit here thinking ‘Where did the time go?  What about the things _I_ wanted to do?’  I’m not complaining; Katie is a blessing and there is no other way I would have wanted to spend my life, but I can’t help think _what if_.  What if I had done more of the things I wanted to do?”

I cannot help but wonder where this is coming from; he has always carried the weight of his responsibilities with grace.  Never once have I heard him express regret over missed opportunities.  I start as a thought comes to me, filling me with a sudden foreboding.  Perhaps there is something…wrong.

“Are you ill, John?  You are not dying are you? Have you seen a doctor?”  I hear concern creep into my voice as the words rush out of my mouth.

A look of amusement replaces the melancholy on his face and he laughs.  The sound of his laugh never fails to send a surge of happiness coursing through me. 

“Where the hell did you get _that_ idea!?  No, I’m not ill and I’m  not dying.  At least no more than any of us are.  No, I’m just thinking I’m not going to live forever and maybe it’s time to do some of the things I always wanted to do before it’s too late.”

“Oh.”  Good.  I try not to let him see the sigh of relief I heave.

“Such as?”  I ask.

“I don’t know.  Like take a trip someplace.  I’ve always wanted to go to Japan.  Or maybe America, drive along Route 66.”  He smiles, dreaming I’m sure of convertibles and Buddhist temples.

“And I’ve always wondered what it’s like to fly in a hot air balloon or ski the Alps.”

“But you do not ski, John.”

He laughs again.  My heart smiles.

“Right.  But it’s not too late to learn, is it?  I know men my age who run marathons, no reason I can’t learn to ski.” 

He takes a sip of tea, reflecting on what could have been.  Of what can still be.

After a minute or so, he asks, “What about you, Sherlock?  What do you want to do that you’ve never done?”  He is looking at me, certain I must have unfulfilled dreams.

He is wrong.

I look at him blankly, searching my memory for missed adventures, things or places I’ve longed to experience, but have not.  Nothing comes to mind.  I have lived, and continue to live, a very satisfying life.

“Nothing.”

“ _Nothing_?  There’s not one single thing you wish you’d done but didn’t?”

I think again.  This seems important to John.  I think hard.  No, nothing.

John shakes his head, incredulous.  “I envy you then, Sherlock.  To have done everything you ever wanted to do.  To have no regrets.” 

Regrets…

Then it comes to me.  Regrets.  A rush of blood reaches my face and I feel myself flush.  It was so long ago I forgot about it. No, that’s not right.  I made the decision not to think about it anymore, to set from my mind something that could not be.

John is looking at me with curiosity; clearly he sees my discomfort.  I pick up my book, hoping he will take the hint and let the conversation drop, go back to his paper.

But he does not.

“What is it, Sherlock?  What have you remembered?”

I do not look up from my book as I studiously ignore him.

“No-o, you’re not going to leave me hanging like this.  The Great Sherlock Holmes is hiding something and I’m not going to let you off the hook.  Tell me, what is it?   Do you want to discover the 244th type of ash? Do you want to see if a cabbie will finally take you and your bloody harpoon someplace?”

I cannot tell if he is serious or if it is his usual dry sense of humour; it is always so hard to tell.  “Leave it be, John.  It is nothing of interest to you, even if you do find my preoccupations mildly humourous.”

“Com’on Sherlock, I told you what I want to do.   How bad can it be?  I promise not to laugh.  Scouts honour.”  He holds up his fingers in an oath.

I glare at him.  He is being very persistent; I cannot say it is an attractive quality.

He continues to smile at me, waiting for a response.

“You were never a Scout.”

“I was a soldier.”

“Being a soldier is not the same.”

“I can be as stubborn as you.  I’m going to just sit here and wait for you to tell me.”  He sets his mug down, crosses his legs and clasps his hands together.  He is in it for the long haul.

I think about it.  How embarrassing can it be? I ask myself.  It was years ago and it has no relevance to my life now.  I decide to tell him.  We’ll have a good laugh and go back to reading.  I lick my lips; they’re dry.

“A _long_ time ago…”  I pause, looking to make sure he catches the emphasized ‘ _long_ ’.  He seems unimpressed; his expression has not changed.

“Go on.”  His elbow now resting on the side of the chair, his chin propped in the palm of his hand, he is intrigued to hear what I have to say.

I start again.  I look at the wall over his head.  “A _long_ time ago…I used to want to see what it would be like to kiss you. But that was ages ago and it hasn’t crossed my mind in years.”  There. I said it. 

I find the courage to look at him and do not like what I see.  The smile on his face is frozen in place and there is a confused look in his eyes.  He appears to be in a state of shock.

“Do I need to get the smelling salts, John?  It’s your own fault, you know; this is what you get for prying.  It was a long time ago and makes no difference.  Now, go back to reading.”  I bury myself back in my book, but do not hear his paper rustle.  I look up again to see the same stunned look still on his face.

John points at me.  “You…?”   His finger swivels to point at himself.  “Me…?”

“Yes, John.  You.  Me.”  I sigh.  This is exactly what I feared.  It appears there will be no having a good laugh over it. 

“But, I thought…  I don’t know what I thought, but I know it wasn’t that.”

“I am sorry, John.  You kept pressing and anyway, it does not matter.  It is ancient history.  Can we just get on with our afternoon now?”  I try to sound annoyed; the truth is I am scared.  What if this impulsive confession changes a friendship that has been so comfortable for so long?  What if, after all these years, I have finally driven John away?  I cannot think about that now.  What is done is done; I cannot unsay the words.

I go back to my book. 

About an hour later I head into the kitchen where, just as in 221b, my science equipment is set up.  The entire time John has been pretending to read his paper.  I can tell because it is upside down.  It doesn’t take Sherlock Hol…well, _me_ , to deduce that John is still dumbfounded by what I said.

He comes in to the kitchen and flips the switch on the kettle.  More tea.  I sincerely hope there is not a level of toxicity that has yet to be discovered.  I make a mental note to perform a study.  Soon.

As I peer into my microscope, I hear the kettle come to a boil and turn off.  John does not reach for it.  I take my eyes from the lens and look at the floor behind me to see John’s shoe toes pointed my way.  He is leaning against the counter, most likely watching me.  I suspect he is mentally packing his belongings.  I do not look up into his face; I do not want to see what he is thinking.  If he thinks I will help him pack he is mistaken.

I return to my soil samples.  Perhaps some deflection will help.  I clear my throat.

“Katie has a boyfriend.  She does not want to tell you because she fears, rightly so, you will not allow her to live on her own anymore because you do not want her to become impregnated by…”

“Stop talking, Sherlock.  Wait.  How do you know she has a boyfriend?  Did she say something to you?” 

“No, John, Katie did not say anything to me.  Her new hairstyle and lip shade are indicative of a cultural mating ritual…”

“Stop.  Just stop, Sherlock.”

I stop.  I stop talking.  I stop moving.  John is using his Unamused voice.

“Come here.”

What? 

I stay still.  I do not want to ‘come here.’  I do not want to see the disappointment in his eyes.  I do not want to think about living alone again after getting used to, no, enjoying John’s proximity again after so long.  I had forgotten how easy it is to live with him, how agreeable it is to share living space with someone who expects no more of me than to be who I am. 

“Come here,” he says again, this time more firmly.  Softer.

I take a deep breath and pull myself upright.  This is it.  Perhaps when he goes I will move back to 221b.  Even if we cannot continue to be friends, I will be comforted by the thought we are in the same city.  Maybe he will be kind enough to say ‘hello’ if we run into each other at Tesco.  I know I will.

I brace myself and turn.  The shock is gone from his face, replaced by Serious John.

It has been nice knowing you, John.  You will never know how nice.

John points at the floor in front of him.  I cast my eyes down, unable to look at him, and move toward him.  Apparently not close enough because he points again at the same spot.  I move closer, until I am but inches away from him.  What his intention is I do not know, but if he wants to hit me because of my impertinence, I do not blame him.  It will not hurt for long.  Not for as long as him leaving will.

I see his hand move toward me and instead of a punch to the stomach it reaches up and lays itself on my face.  What is he doing?  Maybe he is giving me a false sense of security before he hurts me.

But no, his hand molds itself against my skin; it is at once gentle and firm.  The same as I have seen him do with Katie so many times over the years, only with her he would be watching her with a mixture of tenderness and wonder.  I cannot imagine what is on his face right now.  I am not sure I want to know.

John guides my face to look at his.  The tenderness I see there is almost too much for me.  It is not an expression I am familiar with in relation to myself and I feel as if my heart would stop if it was not beating so fast.  His fingers slide to the back of my neck and he slowly pulls me down.  His eyes, those beautiful, beautiful eyes are looking right into me, knowing me, accepting me.

Wanting me.

“John…”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” he says, almost whispering.

It is not his words that cause me to stop talking, it is his mouth. 

It touches mine lightly, resting there for just a moment.  I think it is to ask permission.  I do not push him away.  I do not have the strength, even if I want to. I do not want to.  His lips are warm and soft, fuller than they look.  His hand is back on my face and his thumb brushes back and forth along my cheek, slowly.  The effect is hypnotic.  My eyes close and I am unaware of anything outside myself but the sensation of him touching me, the scent and taste of him.

He takes my lips gently between his and sucks at them softly…one, two, three times.  I try not to tremble, but my body betrays me. 

He pulls away and asks, “Are you alright?”  I can only nod my head; embarrassingly I seem to have lost my ability to speak.  I open my eyes and he is focused on my mouth, his thumb still stroking, stroking.  His eyes once again reach mine.

“May I?”  he asks.  I open my mouth to speak.  It bobs about like a fish out of water, but still no sound comes out.  Nothing in my brain seems to connect; perhaps it is from pure instinct that I lean back into him.  Our mouths meet, this time with equal desire.  John parts my lips with his tongue and seeks out the warmth inside.  I have had my own tongue inside my mouth for my entire life, and I can assure anyone who wants to know it has never caused me to feel what his is causing me to feel right now.  

Excitement.  Panic.  Joy.   It is all too much.

I officially stop breathing. 

John’s tongue leaves. I am alone again.  I look at him, a distant six inches away, and he is breathing heavily.  Perhaps that is where my air went.  I need it back.  He takes his hand from my face and I take a big gulp, sucking in all the oxygen I can, my chest heaving. 

He watches me, amused, but still with that expression of, shall I dare say…affection?  His eyes are warm and soft, never leaving mine.  I have no doubt mine look somewhat deranged.  Perhaps that is what is amusing him, wondering how he found himself in with a crazed roommate.  He should have figured it out the first time.

Returning my oxygen level to a normative state, I am able to ask, “Why did you do that?”

“Why?  Because I don’t want you to leave this world, many years from now I must add, with any regrets.  And because…because neither do I want to.”

“But that was not on your list.”

“I don’t tell you everything.”

“I thought it was not what you wanted, that is what you just said.  You looked horrified when I told you.”

“No, what I was _trying_ to say is I didn’t think it was what you wanted.   You’ve always been so self-contained, Sherlock.  You never married.  Hell, you never dated.  And I’m guessing from how you just reacted you’ve never kissed anyone, either.”

“There was never anyone I wanted to kiss.  Well, apart from you.  Thank you, John.”

The smile on his face is bright.  He looks happy.  “No need to thank me, Sherlock.  The pleasure is all mine.”  He giggles, bites his lower lip (oh how I wish it is me biting it) and looks away briefly. 

“I wouldn’t mind if we do that again sometime.  But you can’t stop breathing,” he says, pointing at me sternly.  “My CPR is rusty.”

I reply with complete honesty.  “I cannot think of a better way to die.”

The afternoon and evening proceed as they usually do.  Long bouts of comfortable silence as we attend to our respective projects or reading.  The occasional snippets of conversation interspersed with companionable bickering and gentle teasing on his part.  Me calling him an ‘idiot.’  More than once.

All is normal in our little Welsh cottage.

Around 11 John goes to bed.  My need for sleep or lack thereof in this case, has never altered; I stay up to work on my current regimen of experiments.  The house feels lonely when John heads to his room for the night.  I miss him.

As I often do, and as I often did when we lived together in 221b, I wait until I am certain he is sound asleep, and quietly open his door.  I sit in the chair at the end of the bed and watch him sleep.  The sound of his rhythmic breathing brings a peace to me that is unmatched by any case, any experiment, any vista outside our cottage.  I can sit like this for hours, not needing or wanting anything other than to be near him, to let his presence fill me with a contentment nothing else brings.

“Sherlock.”

I am not moving, but I freeze anyway.  Maybe he is talking in his sleep, though I have never known him to do so.  I say nothing, hoping if I do not I will not wake him.

“I know you’re there, Sherlock.”

Awake, then.

“Yes, I am here.  Just taking a break; I will leave to let you go back to sleep.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.  Leave, that is.”  His voice sounds sleepy in the dark. He pats the space beside him on his bed.

He can’t be suggesting what I think he is.  I stay where I am, unsure what else he can mean.

“Perhaps His Highness would like a more formal invitation.  Sherlock, will you please come lie down with me?”

I was not wrong, then.  I think about his request.  I think back to kissing him (as if I had stopped!).  If I stopped breathing whilst doing that, what will it do to me to feel his body along the length of mine?  I do not want him to wake up to a cold, dead body next to him; I will not do that to John Watson.

Once again he reads my mind.  I really need to learn to be less obvious.

“I promise to stay awake for a while and if you stop breathing I’ll resuscitate you.  But I think you will be fine, Sherlock.  Think about it.”

How can I think about getting into bed with him?  I can barely breathe _now._

Moments pass as I continue to sit in the chair, arguing with myself, trying to convince myself John is not awake enough to know what he is saying.  He sighs and rolls over, away from me.  He pushes back into his pillow, situating himself to go back to sleep.  “Goodnight, Sherlock.” 

My mind races.  I do not know what to do.  I cannot.  I cannot. I cannot… _not_.  There is no one I trust more in this world than John. There is no one else I have ever wanted to near.  There is no way I cannot accept his invitation.

I get up from the chair and walk over, kicking my slippers off.  I climb onto the bed, lying stiffly on my back beside him, my arms at my side.

John rolls towards me and rests an arm on my chest. His head lies on my shoulder and a blanketed leg reaches over and nudges itself between my uncovered ones.  I do not know how he can be comfortable; it must be like snuggling a board.  He is not complaining and he does not move, so I must trust his judgment that it is good enough for him.

Eventually he extends the cover to include me.  He is still awake, keeping his promise to save me in the event I start to expire. 

But oddly, instead of quickening, I find my heartbeat slowing, becoming smooth and regular at a rate somewhat below normal.  I am…relaxed.  Just as relaxed as I was sitting in the chair just minutes ago.  It is rather a pleasant sensation to have a John wrapped around me, much more so than I ever would have imagined.  My breaths start to match his gentle ones; I sink into the mattress and hesitantly circle him in my arms.  It feels right.

“So you’re doing alright then?  No need for oxygen or chest compressions?”

“I…I am fine, John.  I can see why you like this.”

“It is rather nice, isn’t it.  Holding someone you know well and care about.  Nothing better.”

We lie like this for some time, lost in our own thoughts.  Just being.  Just being together.

I think back to our earlier conversation, about regrets.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I _do_ have one more regret.”  
  
“What is that?”

“I…I never told you I love you.” 

There is a pause and he says, “But you have.” 

I am confused.  I do not remember telling him; I am certain I would not forget.  It is not something I would delete. 

“I have not.  I would remember.”

“Don’t be such a goof,” he mumbles against my shoulder.  “You haven’t said the words but you’ve told me every day since the day we met.” 

“I have?”  I do not understand. 

“Yes, you git.  Everytime you call me an idiot; you called me that several times today, by the way.  Everytime you ask my opinion on something you know very well I haven’t an answer for.  Everytime you babysat my screaming child.”  He sounds as if he chokes up a bit.  “When you faked your death at Bart’s.  When you put yourself at risk to save me from the fire.” 

“Everyday you choose to keep me as a friend when there is no one else you can be bothered with, you tell me you love me.”

I hold him a little tighter.  “If you put it that way, then I have.  And," I pause.  It is the kind of promise I have never made to anyone.  "...I will continue to do so.”

Sounding on the verge of sleep, John, _my_ John says, “Just so you know, Sherlock, I love you, too.”

I kiss the top of his head, the scent of his natural oils mingling with the lingering scent of his shampoo.  Nothing is lovelier.  I rest my head on his, my cheek warmed by the touch.

I hold him closer as I fall asleep.

I have no more regrets.


	2. What does it mean when I call John 'idiot'?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One nightmare and many declarations of love.

I smell mold in the air.  It is not surprising since there is no ventilation in the room, no… dungeon.  Small rivulets of water are running down the side of the cracked concrete walls.  I saw them in the daytime when there was enough light to do so.  It is totally dark, now; they do not pay for lights down here. Prisoners are not worth the cost of the electricity. 

I try to scratch my head; it itches because my hair is long and dirty.  But I cannot.  My arms are chained to my sides.  My legs are shackled, too.  I struggle to free myself, but the effort is futile.  Even if I were not weak from improper nutrition (food costs more than lighting) I would not be strong enough to break the chains holding me down.

I cry out the only word I know that has the ability to help me.

“John!”

But as it has been for the two long years since I left him, I know he will not come.  He thinks I am dead.  Even if he hears my voice he will think it a figment of his imagination and ignore me.  It makes me very sad.  

Even so, I try again.  I am an eternal optimist.

“JOHN!”  My voice is rough. 

“Sherlock!”

What? 

He heard me this time?

“ _Sherlock_ , wake _up_.”

Something rubs my chest.  A hand.  It is warm and smooth and the way it moves against my skin awakes me fully.  As if the shouting would not do that.

“Sherlock, wake up.  You’re having a nightmare.”

I open my eyes and there he is, my beloved John.  Right where I left him.

I look down and there are no shackles; instead I see John wrapped around me just as he was when we fell asleep.

“What were you dreaming about?”  John sounds worried.  “You were struggling and shouting my name.  What’s wrong?”

His hand keeps rubbing me even though I am awake.  I start breathing in rhythm with the motion.  It calms me.

“When I was in the Serbian prison I always called your name, hoping you would come.  The guards never said my name, they told me to ‘shut up, or I’ll kill you.’  In Croatian, of course.  You used to tell me to ‘shut up or I’ll kill you,’ too, so I do not know why when they said it it did not make me feel any better.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”  He sounds as if he hurts.  Why he sounds that way when all I had was a bad dream, I have no idea.

“Why do you think you were having the nightmare now?  It’s been over 20 years since that happened.  What do you think caused it tonight?”

I look down again to where he is tightly hugging me.

“It is because of you.”

“Me?!  How would I cause your nightmare?”

“My subconscious related it to when I was in prison; I could not move, just as I cannot now.  My subconscious does not know the difference between a body and chains.  Imprisonment is imprisonment.”  I do not blame John.  It is an unfortunate consequence of an unfortunate event. 

John’s leg and arms are gone now.  I feel cold.

“Please do not go.  I am awake and I know it is you, not the chains.”

“But you’ll fall asleep again and have another nightmare.  I can’t do that to you, Sherlock.  I don’t want you to be unhappy, even while you’re asleep.”

“But I am unhappy now that you are not holding me.”

He sits up beside me and with the same tenderness I saw in his eyes last night (I think even though I am not used to such an expression on him, I could get used to it very quickly), he puts his hand on my face.  Is he going to kiss me again?  My heart flutters.

He smiles at me gently, leans toward me…

…and kisses me on the other cheek.  Fortunately, it is not as exciting as when he put his tongue in my mouth, but I still like it.  Very much.

I close my eyes and in my entire body all I feel is his lips pressed to me.  It feels as if the sun is shining down on me, warming me.  I lift my smiling face toward it to receive the life it gives.  I wonder if John will imbue me with Vitamin D, just as the sun does. 

“Do you feel better, now?”

Yes, I do.

“Sherlock?”

I need to answer out loud.

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you think you can go back to sleep now?” 

He is searching my eyes as if he will find the answer there.  His palm is wrapped around my wrist, his middle finger pressing at my pulse point. Dr. John Watson.  He must know the answer because he nods sagely (Do doctors ever not nod sagely?), removes himself from my wrist and pats my hand.  He has such a wonderful bedside manner.

I get a funny feeling in the bottom of my heart when he moves far, far away from me and tucks the covers under his chin, ready to sleep all by himself. 

Leaving me all by myself. 

“Why are you so far away?”

“I’m right here, Sherlock.  But I don’t want to touch you; I don’t want you to have any more nightmares.”

I think about this.  If he touches me will it still cause me nightmares?  I think it will cause me nightmares if he does not. 

I am puzzled.  Never in my adult life have I slept with another person in bed with me and yet after only one (half) night I know I do not ever want to sleep without someone again.  ‘Someone’ is John.

“Do not leave me.” I hear a funny sound in my voice and wonder what it is.

“I am _not_ leaving you, Sherlock.  I’m right here.  See?  I can put my arm out…I don’t even have to stretch, and I can touch you.”  He demonstrates.  It is true.  John hardly ever lies to me.

He is still too far away. 

“It is not you touching me that caused the nightmare, John.  It was you holding me that made me feel as if I were trapped.   The answer is very simple.  I will hold _you._ ”  Such an obvious solution.  Sometimes I wonder how John earned his medical degree if he cannot devise solutions to such simple problems.  Thank goodness it is a matter of who holds who and I don’t need him to perform surgery on me.

I quickly forget his intellectual shortfalls when he smiles.  The sun is shining again.

“I think that is a fine idea.  I would like that,” he says, still smiling.  

It is so bright in here; perhaps I should put my sunglasses on. 

He rolls over, his bum sticking out at me.  Even under the covers I can see it is a nice bum, rounded and very firm for a man of his advanced age.  Reaching back toward me, he takes my hand and pulls it toward him gently, bringing the rest of me with it. 

It is as if my body knows exactly what to do, even though I have never read one book or watched one nature documentary on the subject.  I press my chest up against his back, tuck my knees into the back of his and wrap my arm around his middle (my hand is delighted at where it lies on his rounded abdomen). I lean my head down so my face is on his neck and breathe him deep inside of me. 

He sighs and twines the fingers of one hand with mine.

I sigh.

I have heard of Heaven, but I never knew this was what They were talking about.

Now I know why people want to go to there.

* * *

 

I wake up.  The sun is shining, but this time it is the real sun, not John.

He is lying facing me.  Watching me.  Smiling at me. 

“Why are you happy?”

“Because of you.”

“Because of me?  What did I do?”  My eyes shift about as I try to figure out what I have done to elicit such…such _wonderment._ I cannot think of anything.  All I have been doing is sleeping and I can safely say this act has no wonderment-making capabilities.

“Because you are here.  With me.  It makes me happy, Sherlock.”

“But I am with you almost all the time, John, and you do not always smile at me as if you have had one too many beers.  You might want to cut down on drinking beer.  While I like your stomach, it makes my hand almost giddy with delight, you will grow a stomach like a pregnant woman’s and….”

“Enough, Sherlock.”

His voice is firm but the softness does not leave his eyes.

“I’m happy just having you near me like this. It’s what people do with people they…care about.  Is that okay with you?”

I briefly debate the pros and cons.  Truthfully, I should say I debate the pros, because hard as I try, I cannot think of any cons.

“Yes.”

“Good.  That’s sorted.”

“Idiot.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

 

“Idiot.”

John does not pause as he butters his toast, missing half the slice of bread because he cannot be bothered to look up from his laptop.

“I love you, too.”

He seems to like playing this game.  At least I think it is a game because now every time I call him an ‘idiot’ he tells me he loves me and I know no one, not even kind, wonderful, John can love me that much.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Why do you keep telling me you love me? You know I do not like to play games.”

His knife mid-spread on his toast, he looks up at me, confused.

“Do you think I’m playing a game?”

“Yes.”

“And just why do you think that?”

“Because I am not that loveable.  Maybe a little bit, but not that much.”

John looks back at his toast, finishes spreading the butter and adds some jam.  So what I said was true; that is why he is having trouble looking at me.

“Tell me, Sherlock.  Do you think I’m an idiot?  I believe the technical definition is…and yes, I looked it up, because I _can_ read… ‘a foolish or senseless person’?”

It is rare that I am shocked.  Why is John asking me this?  Never have I thought him foolish or senseless.  He is the wisest and kindest man I know.  That I have ever known.

“No, of course not.”

“So then why do you call me that?”

This is a very good question. 

I remember the first time I called him an idiot; it was the first time we worked a case together.  Though I meant it relative to my own brilliance, he took it as an offence.  Thereafter, I occasionally said it because he knew I did not mean it in its truest sense.  He would laugh and I could not help but laugh with him; his laughter made me feel warm inside. But that was years ago.  What does it mean now when I say it?

“I think, John, that at some point it became what you would call an endearment.”

John finally looked at me, waiting for me as I try to solve the rest of the puzzle.

“I think…I think maybe it means I am fond of you.”

I chew the inside of my lip as I concentrate.  “Perhaps, even what you said last night, that I… love you.”

“Now let me ask you this.  Are _you_ playing a game when you call me an idiot?  Whether it’s an endearment or your way of telling me you love me?”

I am affronted.

“Of course _,_ not!  As I just told you, I abhor games.  They are for those who have time to waste.  _That_ I do not have.”

John throws his hand up to stop me.  I am glad he put his knife down first. If he had not, the best case scenario would be cleaning up butter and jam from everywhere.  Worst case scenario, cleaning blood off of me after he accidentally stabs me.  Yes, accidentally.

“Calm down, Sherlock!  It wasn’t an accusation.  I’m merely trying to make a point.  May I proceed?” 

He is lifting his eyebrows, as if trying to tell me something more.  I am not quite sure what.  It does not matter; I like looking at his eyes.  They are such a deep blue, and even when he is angry they look at me in such a way…

Ahem. Back to the subject at hand.

“Yes, you may proceed.”

“How many times have you called me an idiot this morning?”

I think.

One…when he told me he was happy.  Two…when he splashed water at me whilst he shaved.  Three and four…when we went into the garden before breakfast and he pretended (I am fairly certain he was pretending) not to know what flowers I am cultivating.  Five…when he laughed at who knows what on his computer (his laugh feels like a warm summer rain; the kind that makes me want to go outside without an umbrella and just _be_ in it).   I suspect it was at his own blog...   What is a fangirl?  I will have to ask John again.

“Five times.”

“And by your own definition, each time you were telling me you are fond of me?”

“That would be true.”

“Was it too many times?”

“No. No, John, it was not too many times.”  I could never say it too many times, for it is always true.

“So there you go.  I am not playing a game, and yes, you are that lovable.”

John reaches his hand out to the middle of the table, palm up.

I look around. What could he want? Sometimes his eating habits are unusual, but I do not think he will put salt on his toast. Everything else he is able to reach.

"What, John? What is it you need?"

"You," he says simply, as if no explanation is needed.

I look at his hand. Could he mean...?

I reach my hand out tentatively and place it in his. He molds his hand gently to mine as if he is holding something fragile and precious. Then he smiles at me and goes back to reading. His smile does not leave his face; this time I know it is not because of his blog.

My toes start to tingle and I am finding it a little hard to breathe, but I still have enough air to say it. 

“Idiot.” 

“I love you, too.”


	3. The second time we kiss goes worse than the first, but then we get it right.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock each try to come up with a solution to Sherlock's kissing anxiety. Sherlock's works.

I lied.

To John.

Come now, do not look so surprised.  I do it all the time.   If I did not, he would get angry with me and I would sulk and he would yell at me and I would promise never to do it again and then I would do it again and then he would leave.  Well, he has not left _yet_ , but I know he would.  So I lie. 

But this time the lie was not about nearly blinding myself last Tuesday when the beaker of acid exploded.  Or how I am going to use him as a test subject for my new experiment.

No, I lied when I told him I forgot I wanted to kiss him.  What is it young people say now?  ‘As if’?

The memory of wanting to kiss him is so indelible in my mind I am certain there is a section in my brain that would show up on a scan, highlighted in neon green, which reads ‘I WANT TO KISS JOHN’.   Hopefully, it is in Latin and I would be lucky in that the physician reading the scan would be of the new school of medicine that is not taught such useless information.

The first time I wanted to kiss John was the night he shot the cabbie and I deduced it was he who did it.  He stood there so nonchalant, heroic really, the way he pretended it was no big deal he saved me. (That was when I started calling him ‘My Little Soldier’.  Of course not to his face! I am most definitely not suicidal.).  Such a wave of admiration and astonishment ran through me that there was nothing I more I wanted to do than to run over to him and kiss him. But I did not. Instead, like a simpering fool I blathered on and on about washing gun powder off his hands and asked if he was all right.

Stupid! 

_Stupid_!

Almost every day since then I have dreamed of pressing my lips to his and taking his solid body into my arms and squeezing him so tightly he says ‘Ow!  Get off of me, Sherlock!’  But never have I done so.  
  
After twenty-five years of thinking of this, just over nine thousand times, when he really did kiss me I was so beside myself from want that I almost lost consciousness. A perfectly natural reaction.  Not a single whit embarrassing.  
  
As we now sit at the breakfast table holding hands, there is only one thought in my mind. Only one thing that will bring me happiness beyond measure~ I want to kiss John again and never stop. Even if I do stop breathing, I will die knowing it has been a very good life.  A very good life.

John turns from his computer.  
  
"What are you thinking?"  He is looking at me suspiciously.  It must be because I am smiling; I so rarely do. 

"Nothing."   
  
He smirks.  
  
"Liar. You are NEVER thinking 'nothing'. The day you stop thinking is the day the world will have stopped spinning."  
  
He waits for me to answer, but I say nothing.

He squeezes my hand and lets it go.  If I could I would cut it off and let it live with him forever and ever, but I know I will need it again someday.  Probably today.  I do not tell him things such as this, for I fear he would have me locked away just as the old woman in town who was taken to hospital (mental ward) for keeping the head of her deceased husband in the freezer.  Rather sentimental really, but apparently not everyone sees it that way.  I know John did not.  I will have to create another plan for if John goes first.

My stomach aches as he leaves the table.  
  
His dishes clatter as he places them into the sink and I cannot clearly hear what he says over the noise. I think I must have misunderstood him.  He cannot have said it.  He would not do that to me; he is too good a man.

“What did you say?”  I ask, petrified I heard right.

"I'm going to Cardiff.” 

I heard right.

"Are you coming back?"

I do not know where this question comes from.  Not even twenty-four hours ago I would not have worried he might not come back from going to the store.  To the kitchen.  To the other side of the bed. 

John gives me his ‘What the _fuck_ ’ look. 

Do not look at me, I did not name it. Those used to be the words that came out of his mouth whenever his face made this expression.  After Katie started saying them, too, with remarkable clarity for a one-and-a-half year old I must say, he stopped. But he has never stopped using ‘the face’.

"Of _course_ , I'm coming back. Why wouldn't I? I always do don't I? This is where I live."

“There is no need to shout, John.  My hearing is still well above average for a man my age.”

In an instant the ‘What the _fuck_ ’ face disappears and a smile replaces it.

Sigh.

"Besides, I would miss you if I didn’t, silly git. I'm just going to pick up a few things; I'll be back by dinner time. Ok?"

Go if you must.  Just come back.  Please.  Did you notice I said ‘please’, John?  See, I listened when you trained Katie.  
  
I feel my heart pounding in my chest as he walks closer to me and when he gets to me he leans down and...

Kiss me!  Kiss me!

...kisses me on the forehead.  

If I did have such superior self-control over my facial expressions, I would give John a good dose of his ‘What the _fuck_ ’ face.  Forehead.  ‘What the _fuck_ ’, indeed.

"What are you going to do whilst I’m gone?  And why are you looking at me like that?"  He looks confused. 

(It seems I need a little more practice in the face-controlling arena.)

I am going to think about you and how happy my hand is when it lies on your stomach and how I can see the brightest sun in the universe when I look in your eyes and how when I breathe in your skin it is more fragrant than any rose, and...

"Sherlock?"  
  
"I am going to set up a new regimen of experiments."  
  
He looks interested as he wipes his hands dry on the towel. He is always interested to hear what I am working on.  At least he is when I start explaining it to him, then his eyes start to glaze over and he says "uh huh, uh huh" as if he is listening, but I know I have lost him.

"And what are you going to study?"  
  
"Pesticides in major tea brands are at an uncommon level and I need to determine if their toxicity...."

“Uh huh.”

I have already lost him.  It is very kind of him to try, though; most people do not get that far.

“That sounds very interesting.  I’ll be home by three.  Have fun.”

‘Home’.  I never tire hearing it from his lips.  Not ‘the house’.  Not ‘the cottage’.  No, ‘Home’. 

My home.

_Our_ home.

I don’t know what is wrong with me; I never used to be this way. 

In less than a day I have degenerated from a brain that just happened to have a body attached to it to a body in search of a brain.  Perhaps John’s kiss transferred some kind of supernatural magnetic force field that drew my brain matter down to my heart.  Or the cavity where a heart would be if I have one; whether or not I do have one has yet to be determined.

So while John is gone for months and months (how does it take so long to get to Cardiff and back?! ) I propagate a new strain of rose (I will call it the JHW after you-know-who), set up the parameters for my study on tea toxicity, and count the dust mites multiplying under the sofa.  Twice.  (1487, by the way)

That occupied me the first hour.  The remaining time I pace the living room, stare out the window, listen for the sound of the car lest he pull up whilst I blink. 

I see dust rise up over the slope of the hill before I see the car.  Relief.  John is home.

He brings in bags of groceries (you _could_ help, you know, or is Your Highness afraid he will get blisters from doing manual labor?) and goes back outside to the boot of the car and brings in a strange contraption.  It has switches and lights (unilluminated) and an electrical cord.  Attached to it is a plastic bag.  What is in the bag?

“What is in the bag John?  What have you brought home?”

He smiles as if he is very pleased with himself and says, “I’ll tell you later.”

I circle around the object sitting on the floor but cannot determine what it is.  I reach down to the bag, to take just a _peak_ , but John can still be very quick.   He swats my hand away and tells me to be patient.

Be patient.  Hmmph.  He must think he is talking to some other Sherlock Holmes.

He cooks dinner and I watch.  We learned it is best he cooks if we want to avoid unexpected trips to the A &E.  Sometimes I get distracted and mix a chemical from one of my experiments into the recipe and we do not notice until one of us exhibits most interesting symptoms.  John recovered quite nicely from the last incident.  Thank you for asking.

He brings a bottle of wine to the table.  Wine?  Curious.  John does not normally drink wine; I do on the rare occasion I drink alcohol.  But this is not a special day. 

“Are we having company, John?”  I look out the front picture window, but I see no one. 

“No, just the two of us.  Like always.”  He smiles that self-satisfied I’m-not-going-to-tell-you-a-thing smile again, keeps humming and brings our food to the table.

 

* * *

 

We are done eating and I am feeling tipsy.  I giggle. 

“You are such a lightweight, Sherlock.”

“Do not be angry, John. 

“I am _not_ angry.” 

I point at him and giggle again.  “John angry.”

“I am _not_ angry, Sherlock.  And you can’t be drunk; you only had a half glass of wine.”

Oh. 

“Why did you put wine out when we did not have guests?  You never drink wine when it is just us.”

“I wanted you to drink enough to relax.”

I hiccup.  “Why?”

John smiles sweetly at me and my heart goes flippity flip, flippity flip.  “Because I really, _really_ want to kiss you again and I don't want you to pass out on me.  I prefer my lover to be conscious.  Call me strange.”

Lover.  Flippity flip.

Within moments I am hyperventilating.

“No, you are _not_ going to do that again.”

John's voice is soothing; he sounds like he does when he shushes a crying  baby.  My Little Soldier.  He can shoot people _and_  shush babies, both with excellent results.  Amazing.  The complexity of his character is far greater than any jumper he has ever worn.

He suddenly looks concerned.  “Sherlock, you do _want_ to kiss me, don’t you?”

“Idiot.”

“I love you, too.”

I catch my breath enough to say, “No, John. I mean it this time; you are an idiot if you think I do not want to kiss you.”

He smiles…I have pleased him.  I like to please him.  “Oh.  Well. Right then.”

“Do you mind if we move to the sofa?  The table is not very conducive to, uh, making out.”  I do not object.  He takes my hand and leads me to the sofa. We sit down, thigh to thigh.  I tell him how many dust mites live underneath.

I know he did not really listen to me because he murmurs “That’s nice, Sherlock” as he puts his hand on my face and grazes the pad of his thumb across my lips.  His eyes drift up to mine from my lips. He gazes into my eyes; they are kind.  And a shade of blue any wildflower would be jealous of.  And deeper than the pond in the back of the cottage.  I feel myself floating away.  

I take a deep breath; I need more air.  

His face comes close to mine and his breath is warm on my skin.  I don't know whether it is the wine or his own scent, but he smells sweet. I want more.  Like the wine, he makes me giddy.

His lips touch mine lightly, and just as he did yesterday, he sucks at them, gently puckering as if I am an ice cream cone.  I hope I taste like raspberry; that is his favorite.

And just as I did yesterday I start to tremble, but this time I don't mind. I realize it is a chemical reaction, something with which I am familiar and comfortable.  I tremble, I breathe.  It is going well.  I think I may survive.  Survive to kiss him many times more.  Kiss him for the rest of my life.

The palm of my hand is on fire; he lifted it up and put it on his face.  The stubble of his beard is poking me, but it does not hurt; it is exciting.  My eyes closed, my hand roams his face.  Everywhere I touch John it is as if I am discovering a new strain of poisonous plant.  Even though I am being led it makes me feel more brave and adventurous than I have in a long time. I trust John not to lead me somewhere dangerous. 

After many minutes, John takes his own deep breath; he pants a few times and asks, “Are you all right, Sherlock?  You seem all right.  Are you getting enough air?”

“Idiot.”

“Am I being foolish?”

“You are by asking me that last question.”

He beams.  “I love you, too.”

“Now _shut. Up._   And kiss me again.”

John shuts up.

His hand is on the back of my head; his fingers massage me, play with my hair.  I feel him smiling as he kisses me. He pulls back, looking at me as if he has a secret and says, “You are beautiful, Sherlock.  Absolutely beautiful.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.  Yes you are; you always have been.” 

Me, beautiful.  How interesting.  I have never given much thought to beauty, and certainly never whether I possess any.  Functionality is what has value; how objects contribute to the ways of the world.  But I look at John and I know what he is talking about.  He has always been beautiful to me, too.   
  
He kisses me again.  Something firm and moist peeks between my lips. Ooohhh!  It is his tongue again; I remember it so well from yesterday.  It comes to a stop just within reach of mine.  Wanting.  Waiting.  Teasing.  Making sure I am ready.  

I am.  

It enters my mouth, thick and strong. It is not intrusive; it feels as if it always belonged there.  I suck at it and it pulls back; I have to dart at it to catch it again.   And again.  And.  Again.

Everything starts to go black…

 

* * *

“Come on honey, wake up.”

Honey?  Who is Honey?  I feel a hand underneath my unbuttoned shirt (how did that happen?) persistently rubbing me in brisk, firm strokes up and down my sternum.  It is not an unpleasant sensation.

“Sherlock, honey.  Just wake up for me, okay?” 

I am Honey.  I like the sound of that, but I do not like the sound of John’s voice.  It is urgent and higher pitched than normal; it sounds more scared than when I had my nightmare.  I wonder what is going on this time. 

I hear a whirring noise and something hard resting around the outside of my mouth.  An oxygen machine.  Very clever, John!  Much more efficient than mouth-to-mouth.

My eyes fly open and I see him exhale with relief.

I pull the mask off; I am breathing better and no longer need it.  I am so tired.

John holds my hand where it lies limp on my leg.

“What am I going to do with you, you silly man?  You can’t stop breathing every time we kiss and there is _no_ way I am not going to kiss you again.”

 I look up at him from where I lie on the sofa; I think I know how we can solve the problem.

I explain my plan to John.  It is brilliant in its simplicity.  

"You think it will work?"

"It cannot hurt to try."

We stay up whilst I recover from my trauma. We snuggle on the sofa and watch some ludicrous show about doctors on Mars.  (‘There cannot be doctors on Mars, John.  Humans cannot inhabit a planet which…’  ‘Just shut up, Sherlock.  It’s not a reality show.’)

Wait.

Did I just say _snuggle_?!  Maybe I _will_ go to the doctor for my yearly physical as John suggests.  It is only fifteen years since I have been, but anything for John.   

Finally, we go to bed, oxygen in tow just in case.  I follow John to his room and like last night I fork...no, spoon him from behind; I learn new things very quickly.   My hand is so, so happy on his stomach. 

I fall asleep.

I dream I am kissing john. His mouth is warm and firm and our tongues play and play and I have no trouble at all breathing.  For a moment, for one brief moment I am sad.  I have missed out on this all of my life.  If only I had kissed John that night so long ago we might have been kissing like this all these years.  But no, I shall not regret that.  I have him here now and that is what matters. 

I wake.  John, Real John, not Dream John, is kissing me. I do not know how it happens, but I am relaxed and thrilled and excited all at the same time.  I open my eyes to see John’s are open too; my eyes cross as I try to see what he is thinking.

"It worked!"  He sits up and grins like an idiot. He takes my pulse and, agreeable with what he counts, puts his mouth on mine again.  I do not have enough space in my brain to worry about his lips leaving me.  They will be there forever.

Sometime later, a long time later, we stop.  (I do not know how long.  Who thinks about time when they are _kissing_?!) I lie on my back, sinking into the pillow, and stroke my fingers along John’s face, his neck.  I have no words for the wonder I have looking at him, knowing I am free to show him what I have hidden all these years.

"That was a brilliant idea!”

 I blush. While I often tell myself I am brilliant, which undoubtedly I am, it sounds so much more flattering coming from him.

“Why do you think it worked?"

I tell him I lied to him. I tell him I have always wanted to kiss him. That I have always dreamed of kissing him, both while awake and when asleep.  That I thought if we bridged the dream where I kiss him without falling unconscious, with reality, I may connect the two in my mind, relieving me of my overwhelming sense of anticipation.

His mouth forms into a wide ‘O’; he looks shocked.  

Where is that oxygen?  Perhaps we will need it for him, too.

"I have always dreamed of kissing you, too, Sherlock,” he says almost shyly.

My mouth forms into an ‘O’ and I have trouble breathing.  

"Oh no you don't!"

He kisses me and I relax.  Ahh, now it is the cure instead of the instigator.  A most fortuitous turnaround.

John lies down and backs against me.  I wrap myself around him.  How quickly we have created a new routine.

I speak into the neck my lips are resting on.

"I love you, John."

"Idiot," he says.

I do not mind being an idiot if I am John's idiot. 

And it appears I am.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much to those of you who encouraged to stretch my one-shot into a multi-chapter fic. I am enoying it so much! I hope you are , too! :-D


	4. How John broke the news to me that I am in love with him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock cannot think. Has he been brainwashed? What other explanation could there be for only being able to think of John Watson?

John falls asleep before I do.

I listen to him breathe. Ten times out and nine times in per minute.  Breaths rhythmic and deep, he snores so lightly I am not sure they could be classified as such.  His stomach expands and contracts with each breath, my hand resting on it rising and falling in tandem. Everything else about him is still.

I cannot think.

Well, I cannot think about anything but the downy hairs on the back of his neck, the callus I feel on the bottom of his foot where I rub it with my toes, the way his hair shines in the moonlight.

I have a confession.  As much as I enjoy thinking about John, the way he looks, the way he feels, the way he smells, the way just the twitch of his lip can make me…

Ahem, as I was saying, I cannot think.  

I tear myself away from John and go to my old haunt, the chair at the end of the bed. Though asleep, he seems to know I have gone. He rolls toward the now empty space beside him and reaches out to hug my pillow, giving it a little squeeze. Is it because he needs more space, or could it be, dare I hope...he misses me? 

I miss you too, John.  

Sitting at the end of the bed does not help me to think; alarmingly, my lack of concentration on anything but John is worse, for now I am able to see all of him. The face I have longed for, profiled so serenely against the pillow.  His hair, mussed with sleep, calling out to my fingers, begging them to touch it.  The hand that curls into the pillow, so strong…strong enough to fight a war and tender enough to wipe a child’s tears.   
  
I close my eyes to the sight before me. Maybe now I can think.

I still cannot think because now all I can do is feel. Feel his lips soft against mine.  His body burning against me.  His breath warm and sweet on my face.

What kind of spell has this man cast on me?! I do not believe in witches or spirits, yet what other explanation can there be?

John has hypnotised me!  That is it!  He has brainwashed me into thinking only of him. 

I am puzzled.  When did he have the opportunity? I do not recall him dangling a shiny object in front of me telling me I am very sleepy.  Ah!  I know!  Maybe he hypnotised me to forget I was hypnotised.  No.  That is not right.  As clever as John is, I do not believe he could think that far ahead.

I examine him.  He looks so innocent lying there, not at all like some He Devil who goes about casting spells and brainwashing people. I am frustrated. I cannot deduce in what manner he has sabotaged my brain.  How this could happen I do not know; my superior intellect would need a very powerful act to overcome it.

I cannot stand it anymore; I must know how he did it.  
  
I fly to the bed and perch on the edge, grasping his shoulder, shaking it.  My urgency to wake him now surpassing all other thought.  

“John!  John!”

“What Sherlock?”  He grumbles.  I really must teach him self-relaxation techniques; they have worked so well for me. 

“How did you hypnotise me?  No, wait!  I know!  You put a drug in the oxygen mask and that is why I can think only of you. Why didn't I think of that before!”  I am quite proud of myself to have deduced the answer so quickly.  

With one eye squeezed shut and the other squinting, John still manages to execute a near perfect ‘What the _fuck_ ’ face.  I really must applaud his dedication to his craft.

He fumbles for the switch and turns the lamp on, squinting even harder at its intrusion.

“What the hell, Sherlock?  I did _not_ drug you.”

Oh. I am disappointed.  To have John love me so much as to want to drug me would have been a dream come true.  I feel very much the same about him.

I think again.

“The wine!  You put a mind-altering drug in the wine that will scramble my brain cells so I can no longer concentrate on my work!”  I smile triumphantly.  It does not happen very often, but sometimes, such as now, I must revise my initial hypothesis in order to arrive at the correct conclusion.

John sighs wearily.  I do not know how he can be weary; he has had almost three and a half hours of sleep.  He should be as well-rested and alert as I.

“No, Sherlock, I did not put anything in your wine. Now will you let me go back to sleep, please.  It’s…”  He squints at the clock and groans.  “It’s only 3:30 and we didn’t get to sleep until midnight.”  He rolls onto his back and throws his arm over his eyes.  He has quit hugging my pillow.  He has quit hugging _me._

I stay on the edge of the bed, frustrated.  I am wrong again.  This so rarely happens.

“Are you sulking?” 

How can you know?  You cannot see me with your eyes covered like that.  Besides, John, I do not _sulk._ Sulking is for spoiled children who do not get what they ask for at Christmas.  Do keep up.

“If you did not brainwash me or drug me, then what is wrong with me?  Why am I so…so… _consumed_ by you?  This is very odd.”

John breathes in deeply, tiredly, as if he is falling back asleep, but no.  He is not asleep.  Instead he says four little words I know I will never forget, for I believe they will change my life forever.

I am not ready to hear them, but I have no choice.  He does not tell me he is going to say them, and he does not ask permission to do so.  Instead he takes my future into his sure, capable hands.  My future could not be in better ones.

“You are in love.”

I stop breathing.  What?

What?

What?

“Me?”  I look around.  There is no one else in the room.

“Yes, _you._   Now breathe.  If need be I can kiss you to calm you down.”  Even if I could not see him I would hear him smiling.

As enticing as the offer is, I am entirely distracted by his declaration.  Sherlock Holmes? _In **love**? _

“With whom am I in love?”

He does not say anything.  I reach out to turn off the light.  As much as I want to know the answer to my question, I would rather speak with Nice John and not Grumpy John.  I will have to wait until morning to solve the mystery.

But just as I am about to switch the light off, he finally answers me.

“Me, Sherlock.  You’re in love with _me_.” 

I look up at the ceiling.  I look at the wall.  I look at the cobweb dangling off the lampshade.  I look everywhere but at John, afraid he can see my reaction despite the arm that still rests on his face.

How did I miss this, me being in love?  I am The Most Observant Man in the World and I did not see I am in love with John?  There had to have been clues.  Relief courses through me.  _Of course_ I did not observe it.  I have no idea what ‘being in love’ means!  For me to know I was in love would be like trying to find an elephant standing right in front of me without knowing what a pachyderm is.

I am exonerated. 

Later, John will tell me that because I was quiet for so long he misread my reaction as one of horror, but for now what he says is:

“I know, pretty ridiculous of me to think so, huh?  Here I am, not exactly in my prime, thinking you might be in love with me.  How could you be in love with a grey-haired old man, with a physique light years beyond sexy, grumpy as all get out, always calling you names, and 15cm shorter than you to boot.  Forget I said anything.  Night.”

With that he rolls over.  He might as well have slammed the door in my face.  Not that he has not done so many times over the years, with little effect I must say, for I always open it and walk through anyway.  Well, except for the time he hit me in the nose and he apologised profusely for days and days saying he didn’t mean it and he was sorry because he would never in a million years want to hurt me and would I please please forgive him.  Yes John, always.  

But this time he will not get away with it.  “Captain Watson!”  I bark at him.

His body jerks at the authority in my voice.  In the decades I have known him I have only spoken to him in such a way twice. 

The first time was when I awoke him from a nightmare.  So deep was he in the throes of a firefight in Afghanistan, I could not wake him by conventional means; I used my best Major Holmes voice to break the hold his memories had on him.  I must have been very convincing; in his haste to follow his commander, he practically offered a salute as he sprang instantly into a sitting position.

The second time was when he almost died on me after being nicked by a cab as we chased a mugger.  He stopped breathing due to his punctured lung and in my brilliance (fright) I shouted at him, startling him from his journey to the afterlife. (‘I figured it was the only way to get some peace and quiet.  I was afraid you were going to follow me to wherever it was I was going,’ he groused long afterwards.)  It still warms me to recall his gratitude for saving his life.

“Do _not_ presume to tell me what I think,” I assert, ready to defy his logic of why I could not be in love with him.  “You are a fine looking man.  You cannot help your diminutive stature and I like your grey hair; it makes you look dignified, intelligent far beyond your capacity.  As for calling me names, I do not even notice. I do not hear half of what you say; it is all white noise to me. And I would not recognise you if you had a more pleasing disposition.  You are exactly as you should be, John.”

I am exhausted from all the praise I give him.  I had best be careful; I do not want to give him a big head.

I am still puzzled, though.  How does he know I am in love?

“How do you know I am in love, John?  What symptoms am I exhibiting?”   

He drags his arm off his face, appearing to give up on any further rest for the foreseeable future.  He props himself up on his hand; both eyes are fully open, looking at me.  I fall into them and struggle for air.  I am drowning. 

“Come here.  Gimme a kiss.”

I oblige him and my breathing is soon righted.  He is a very fine doctor, indeed.

“Well, one of the main ‘symptoms’, as you call them (it’s not a disease, you know!), is just exactly what you were talking about, being, uhh, ‘consumed’ by me. When you’re in love it’s almost impossible to think about anything _but_ the person you’re in love with.”

I consider this first symptom.  I look at him and nod my head, check.

“People in love have trouble eating and sleeping.

“Ha!”  I cry.  “I have never required more than a few hours sleep a night and as you know, my body is just transport; I eat no more than is required to sustain it in the course of my work.”

“’Never’ is a pretty strong word, Sherlock.  By chance did ‘never’ start when you met me?”  John asks this kindly, as if to say it any other way would make me run off as if a deer skittering on ice.

After a lengthy deliberation, I state simply and honestly, “I cannot remember there ever _not_ being you.”

Symptoms number two and three, check.

“Anything else, John?  Surely these are mere coincidences.”  My brother’s voice echoes in my ears, ‘The universe is rarely so lazy.’

John proceeds with love-sickness symptom number four.  “Someone in love is miserable whenever the object of their affection is away from them.”

Oh dear.  Can this be why I fear him leaving me?  Is this why, when he is apart from me more than a few minutes my heart beats erratically and I feel panic grow within me?  Can I be…?  I am almost ashamed; I never have thought myself to be susceptible to such a common emotion.  I must be, I _have_ to be above such frivolity.

Symptom number four….check.

I chew at my lip; my brow furrows.  “John?”

“Yes?”  He is watching me apprehensively.  Of what he is afraid I do not know.  I can only hope he is not afraid of _me_.  

“I think…I think what you say may be true.  I know it is incomprehensible for a person such as I to engage in such a base emotion, but I… just may be in love with you.”

This confuses me. Sherlock Holmes in love; it does not make sense. I do not have a heart (I have been reliably informed). I am not kind.  I do not like people, except John. I am not romantic and I put nothing before my brain. My work is all I have.  All I have ever had.

No, I am wrong. (Please do not tell anyone, I have a reputation to maintain.)

My work is all I have except for _John_.

I look at him and see amazement and wonder, and a feeling more powerful than any I have ever experienced takes hold of me and I know without any small particle of doubt that what John said is true; I am in love with him.  Just as astonishingly, I realise I do not want it any other way.

“John!  Are you alright?” His face is shifting into a most unusual configuration, one I have never encountered before.  It is far from the ‘What the _fuck_ ’ face, more like a ‘the sun is so bright and beautiful but I won’t tear my eyes from it even if I go blind’ face. 

“Yes, I'm fine, Sherlock.”

But he does not look fine. He will no longer look at me and his eyes are collecting moisture and he shuffles his hand across his nose as he sniffles. Perhaps he has developed allergies; while not common, allergies have been known to develop later in life.

“Do I need to take you to an allergist?”  I ask him.  I am concerned; I do not want him to go about crying all the time.  I think he would be embarrassed.  Plus, tissues are not inexpensive and he is bound to go through many of them.

“No, Sherlock. I know what I’m allergic to.’’  He pauses.  “And there is no cure.”

I am stunned.  He has already been diagnosed and it is terminal.  Is this a condition that has been lurking for some time and he has been hiding it from me?  I have never known him to be so deceptive.  It must be serious indeed for him to try to protect me from its consequences. 

“What is it, John?!  What are you allergic to?”

“ _You_ , you sodding twat.”  

I am distressed to be the cause of his misery.  I jump off the bed.  I do not want to make his symptoms any worse.

“Where are you going?!”

“I do not want to antagonise your symptoms; if you are allergic to me I will have to stay away from you.”

My heart grows heavy.  To be away from John, even if it for his own good, will be the hardest thing I have ever done.  If I am lucky, I will not have to move away.  Maybe we will build a room off the cottage and I can live there.  I still will not be able to see him much for fear of worsening his condition, but I will be close enough to hear him if he shouts through the wall.

“Get over here you pea-brained genius.  Jesus, you don't get it, do you. I'm in love with you, too.  I have been for years.”  John is exasperated.  I hope he does not start yelling.  I hope in his rush to heal he does not start yelling at me to leave…

Wait?  What?

“You?  Are…in love?  With _me_?” 

O.O

I am not a person someone falls in love with.  I am a freak.  I am someone who makes children scream when they see me.  I am someone people, even John, call an idiot. 

“That cannot be true,” I state with all the assurance of someone who has vast knowledge on the subject.  “You date all the time.  You must have unconsciously transferred your emotions from the latest person you were dating.  What was her name?  I do not remember.”

“When was the last time you saw me go out on a date?  Huh?  It’s been _16 years_ , Sherlock.  I haven’t been interested in anyone else for longer than I can remember and that was only because I thought you were unavailable.  No, I’m sorry to give you such shocking news, but I am in love with _you_.”

“But you eat and sleep.  You do not think about me all the time.  You leave me aregularly.  Just yesterday you left for days on end and it did not seem to bother you one whit.   No, John, you are wrong.  I do not know why you want to confess to such nonsense.”

“I have had time to get used to being in love with you; I’ve known since the day I met you.  You only just discovered your feelings.”

That makes sense, but…

“What about Mary?  You got married.”

“Yes, I did. And I don’t regret it; if I hadn’t married her I wouldn’t have Katie.  Mary was a wonderful woman and I truly loved her, but it was never the same as what I feel for you, what I’ve always felt for you.  And besides, you weren’t here, were you Sherlock.  I thought you were dead.  I couldn’t die along with you.”

This also made sense, but…

“But John, you told me to come live here.  How can you say you love me when you were willing to let me go?”

“I did encourage you to come live here, yes.  I wanted what was best for _you_ , and that’s what people do for those they love.  But when I came to visit I didn’t leave, did I?

He has a point.  “No.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Because you love me?”  I know if I were to look in the mirror I would have the same ‘the sun is so bright and beautiful but I won’t tear my eyes from it even if I go blind’ look on my face I just witnessed on John.

“That is precisely why, Sherlock.  I couldn’t stand to be apart from you another day.”

I sit still and quiet long enough that John reaches out touches my hand.  “Sherlock?  Did I answer all your questions?”

I have a few more.

“John.  Does this mean you are mine?”

“Yes.”

“Forever?”

“As long as you want me.  I always have been; there’s no reason to stop anytime soon.”

I let out a huge sigh of relief.  “It is settled then, you are _mine._ Forever _._ ”

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

John is so very patient. 

“Since you love me and you are mine, will you do me one small favour?”

“Anything, Sherlock.  You know that.”

“Will you call me ‘Honey’?”

“When?  Now?”

I nod.  “I liked it when you called me that.”

“Honey.”  He looks straight into my eyes and whispers it softly.  I am not sure I am correctly identifying the tone, but he almost sounds reverent.  “Honey.”  His eyes roam my face as if he has not seen it before.

I lie down and put my head on his chest; he makes room for my knees as I draw them up against him.  His hand rests on my head and his fingers weave through my hair, over and over and over.

“Honey,” he says soothingly.  Lovingly. 

I feel the vibration as he says it, hear the low rumble deep inside his chest.

“Honey. 

“I love you, Honey. 

“I am yours, Honey.” 

I clasp his free hand as I drift into sleep, more content than I have ever known myself to be.

 

 


	5. I say something stupid (John says, 'Go figure')

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tells John to move out and the doctor happily complies. Too happily for Sherlock's taste.

I awake to the sound in my ear of a river rushing beneath me; it has a strong, soothing current, one which threatens to lull me back to sleep.  The water is warm, yet oddly, when I put my hand to the side of my face closest to it, it is not wet; I do not feel water.

All I feel is John, his chest still beneath my cheek. 

Ahh, that is what I hear; the sound of his heart beating beneath me, the blood pumping through his veins.  If asked to, I will defer to his medical training, but I pronounce his heart strong and healthy, capable of keeping him on this Earth for many, many more years to come.

Capable of keeping him with _me_. 

I lie here and think about the last two days, two days in which more has changed than in the last two decades. 

In the last two days I have had my first kiss, fallen in love, and become someone’s lover.  Not ‘someone’s’, but John’s.  No other person will do.

If I am John’s lover then he is most certainly mine.  What particulars that entails I truly have no idea, but it sounds as if it requires no more than to love him (so, so easy to do), to kiss him until I am breathless, and cuddle him in bed.  As in all things I do, I am an excellent lover.  I will have to tell him, in case he is unaware of this fact.

I cannot believe how exhausting it is, this business of being a lover.  I am worn out from lying around in bed, sleeping more in two nights than I usually sleep in a week.  Do not get me wrong, it is not that I mind lying around for hours on end, it is one of my favorite occupations.  But usually when I do I am thinking about my experiments, thinking about the small pile of cold cases Lestrade slips me once in a while (he contracts out as a private investigator to supplement his retirement income.  His ex-wife gets half of his pension.), thinking about the infestation of my digitalis purpurea that would otherwise thrive in my garden. 

Thinking, and putting into motion the results of my thinking, is my life source and without my daily requirement I am losing energy.

Do not get me wrong, I do think, but now all I can think about is John.  I believe I have mentioned this complaint before and the circumstance has not improved.  Not one single bit.  It has been almost two whole days; one would think I would be over this aberration by now.  Not that I would be over being in love with John, I will go to the grave that, but that thinking about him takes over my brain, leaving no room for other important matters.  With my phenomenal mental capacity surely I should be able to compartmentalise my feelings for him and go on with the rest of my life unaffected.   But no. 

Think of poor John.  He has been in love with me for 25 years.  How has he done it?  No wonder his brain capacity has always been so diminished, his synapses have been occupied with being in love with me, eroding through the years from lack of productive use.  Though if I may say, there are far less worthy causes for being an idiot.

I go back to listening to the ‘river’.

Throosh. ..

Throosh…

His blood flows beneath me.

Thrump…

Thrump..

His heart beats beneath me.

I have never heard anything more fascinating in my life. 

* * *

 

It is early afternoon.  This is what my day has consisted of thus far:  I watched John lying in bed until he arose for the day.  I sat in the bathroom and watched him shave. (He would not let me watch him shower.  He said we are not far enough along in our relationship…yet - whatever that means.)  I watched him make breakfast eat wash the dishes read the paper start his new novel wash and iron our clothes leave the house to go for a long walk come back from the walk balance his checkbook make an entry in his blog take a nap.

All I have done all day is watch John, think about John.  I will not lie, it has been most satisfying; I do not think I can ever get enough of John.  In the quarter of a century I have known him I have never tired of him, have never been bored.  But this round-the-clock observation of him has to stop.  This is a problem I have to fix or else I will never get any of my important work done.

The solution comes to me as we sit out on the veranda taking our tea.

“John, you must move out.  Obviously.”

He looks around in confusion as if unable to tell where the sound of my voice comes from. (Over here, John.)  When he finally faces me, he looks as stunned as the day I told him my regret of not having kissed him.  I am pleased.  This will be easier than I thought. I imagined he might put up a small fuss, but if he is as willing to please me in this as he was to kiss me, it shall be an easy transition indeed.  I get up to start packing his things.  Most everything is mine so it will not be much trouble.

“ **WHAT.  THE.  FUCK?!** ”

I sit back down.  So.  Not as easy as I thought.

“What is the problem, John?  I thought you would be pleased.  This is a very logical solution.” 

His eyebrows rise up and down.  His mouth opens and shut.  Several times.  The look on his face is terrifying.  I shiver. 

“Solution to WHAT?!”

“Please, John.  Do not yell.  Whilst I find your heartbeat to be very strong, it surely can do no good to raise your blood pressure.  The incidence of heart-related deaths in men your age is alarmingly high, and…”

“I don’t _care_ about my sodding blood pressure.  What do you mean I should ‘move out’?  What kind of hair brain idea do you have now?”

His eyes are bulging.  This cannot be good.

“Here,” I say, “have some tea.  No, wait, I have not yet done the study and you need to watch your intake.  A biscuit perhaps?  No, sugar will make you hyper, or at least more agitated.  Here, smell this rose.”  I take a rose from the vase and hand it to him.  “Aromatherapy, it is quite the rage now.”

I do everything I can to calm him.  My resourcefulness is quite amazing.

“Aromatherapy was ‘quite the rage’ _thirty years ago._   Do your research.”

Long ago he started throwing that phrase at me when he was especially mad; he likes to say it when he thinks I am being dense and he knows it will make me shut up and go sulk in a corner.  I will not do so, now; we have a problem to solve.  Though I have to say ‘do your research’ is far preferable to ‘stuff a bloody sock in it’ (disgustingly unsanitary, John) or ‘go jump off a bridge’ (he should be more sensitive to my fear of heights; after all, I did jump from a tall building for him).

“That is the problem, John.  I cannot.”

“You cannot _what_?”

“I cannot do my research.  Ever since I fell in love with you all I can think about is you.  All I can smell and see, is you.  And whilst I find every bit of it highly intriguing and admittedly very pleasurable, it is interrupting my work.  I am not able to _think_ , John.”

This is as clear as I can make myself.  Surely John will understand this is as much of a problem as him being unable to eat or sleep, for a corpse to be unable to decompose, for the sun to be unable to rise.  My thinking is a necessary component of existence.

“Oh.”

 I am not sure what ‘oh’ means, but I am hopeful it means he understands my predicament and has seen the brilliance in my suggestion he move out.

“Yes, ‘oh’.”  I give him positive reinforcement.

“That is serious, Sherlock.  But I don’t think me moving out is the answer.  Remember that one of the symptoms of being in love is thinking about that person all the time.  That will happen even when I’m not here.”

I suspected he would counter with that argument.  He is so easy to deduce.

“Yes, but it will be easier to get you out of my mind, put something else there, if I cannot see you all the time.”  I truly believe this will solve my problem.

John thinks about this.  His mind is slow, so it takes a lengthy period of time to do so.  Close to 30 seconds later (aka: an eternity), I see him relax.

“Ok.”

“Ok?”  I look at him to see if, as he likes to say, he is ‘taking a piss’.  After his initial reaction I did not think it would be quite so easy to convince him.

A big smile is now spreading across his face.  “Yes, ok.”

I peer closely at him.  The smile appears to be genuine.  I smile back; he has seen my point of view and heartily agrees. 

I am impressed by my persuasive powers; superior intellect wins every time. 

“Yes, I think it is a fine idea.  When would you like me to move out?”

I think about this.  As brilliant a solution as it is, I do not think I will like it if it is immediately implemented.  I know I will miss John and I do not want to start my new life without him right away.

“How about the end of the week?  That will give you time to pack (I am sly, I know it will not take long) and look for a place to live.  Though I hear the Slider family down the road have just moved and there is no new renter, yet.  You would be close by; we could visit.  Have dinner.”  I bite my lip.  “Maybe you could occasionally stop by to snuggle.”  I do not want to live without snuggling now that I know how immensely enjoyable it is.

“The Slider place?  No, I don’t think so.  I will honour your wishes and give you _lots_ of space to think; there is a flat that just opened up in Katie’s building.  I’ll give her a call and see if it’s still available.  If it is, I can get packed this afternoon and you’ll be back to thinking by this evening!” 

London?!

“London, John?  Would you not be more comfortable in the cottage down the road?  You will have a lot of space to yourself, and the views!  Think of the views!  And you can grow a little garden, like we…I, have here.  I do not know how you can think of going back to that musty old city now.”  (London, I am sorry!  You know I love you.  Very, very much!  I am sorry if I hurt your feelings, but I love John more.  Yes, it is true.  I do not want him to go so far away, even if it is to be with you.)

“No, I think London is the right place to go and just think of how much time it will give you to think, all the experiments you can conduct!  I miss London; it will be good to get back there. I can hardly wait!”

I see I was gravely mistaken in my estimation of his devotion to me, but I will be brave.  I will show him how little it bothers me.

“All right, fine; shall I help you pack?” I ask.

“No, I’ve got it; go back to whatever you are doing.  Maybe now that you know you’ll have time to think, you can get started right away.”

He takes our dishes to the kitchen, whistling.  Whistling!  I should be glad to know I am making him so happy, isn’t that what one does for someone they love?  But I am not. 

I flop onto the couch and watch him jauntily walk into his bedroom.  Now he’s walking _jauntily_?!  I should have done this the day he moved in, if it makes him so happy.  Maybe he can move back in and immediately move back out.  He’ll be ecstatic. 

He closes his bedroom door and I hear him rummaging through his drawers, pulling clothing off the hangars in his closet.  Pulling the nails out of the walls where he hung pictures of him and Katie, pictures of him and me from our crime fighting days. 

All the while, he is whistling.  The nerve. 

I hear him call Katie.

“…Oh good, good, yes!  Tell them I’ll be round later today to give them the deposit and rent money, and pick up the key….yes, today.  I’m just about packed…Sudden? Yes….No, nothing’s happened; Uncle Sherlock and I have been getting along just fine.  I’ve been thinking about it; I’ve missed London and I just decided it’s time to go back.  No sense waiting!...Ok, ok, see you tonight.  Bye, love.”

I look at the closed door.  I hate that door.  The door between me and John.  Hate, hate, hate.

I turn over and face the back of the sofa.  I will show _him_ who cares less. 

I cannot help it.  I peak back to look at the door.  The door to the room that holds John.  The door to the room that I spent the last two nights, the two happiest nights of my life. 

I miss him already, but I will be strong.  Besides, I cannot now ask him to stay; I was the one who told him he should move out.  I will look like an idiot if I tell him I was wrong.  And soon, _soon_ , I will be able to think again.  I know I will. 

I roll over.  I roll over again.  I sit up. I pivot so I can hang my head off the seat with my feet on the wall.  I cannot find a comfortable position.

I spin back to a sitting position and jump to my feet.  I stomp, I mean walk, over to John’s door.

Knock.  Knock.  Knock. 

“Who is it?”

 ‘WHO _IS_ IT?!’  Has he already forgotten me?!

“It’s _Sherlock_ , you idiot!”

“Oh.  Hi, Sherlock.  I love you, too.”

No!  _No_!  I really did mean ‘idiot’ this time.  How can he not know it is me outside his door?!  I mean, who else is in the house?

I use my sweetest voice.  “May I come in?  I can keep you company whilst you pack.  I can even help, if you like.”

I need to be on the other side of the door.  I need to be near John, to sit on the bed that, with him beside me, has brought me some of the greatest happiness I have known (the tie for greatest is too close to call between the happiness he brought me and the time I solved the case of the locked room murder.  The murder weapon was a lethal spider that promptly died and rolled into a little ball.  It stuck to Anderson’s shoe sole when he stepped on it and it stayed there all the way to Scotland Yard.  They should have charged him with harboring a fugitive.)  

Please, John, let me come in.  I need to see you these last few minutes before you go.  I need to see if you’ve lost any of those delicate, butterfly-like eyelashes that are still so amazingly blonde.  I need to see the way your back muscles flex when reach for something in the closet.  I need to see the freckle on the bottom of your neck where it just starts to meet your shoulder.  Please, John. 

“John?”

“Thank’s for the offer,” he calls through the door.   “But I’m doing just fine.  Almost done, in fact; there’s not much here.  I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Almost done.  He’ll be leaving soon.

I go lie down on the sofa, close my eyes, and wait.  And think.  Not that kind of thinking.  Thinking about John.  About how much I will miss him, at least for a while.  I estimate it will be no more than two days that I will miss him, for that is how long it has been since I kissed him and fell in love.  Surely going through the withdrawal of being in love with him can last no longer the initial feelings themselves.  Surely.

I am not sure.

But now I am stuck with my plan.  Everything will be fine, it just may take a little longer than I initially thought until I get my brain back.

With my face to the sofa back, I do not see John come out of the room.  I refuse to watch him leave.  He brings out two suitcases (I hear their metal feet hit the floor) and several heavy boxes, judging by his grunts as he sets them down.  The door to his room shuts.  The door to my short-lived love life. 

“Well, I guess that’s about it then,” he says, not sounding at all put out by the sudden change in living arrangements.  “I spoke with Katie and there is a flat available for me.  She’s excited to have her old dad back around. “

Of course, she is, you are John Watson.  Anyone would be happy to have you around.  Even me, if I could think.  Think of anything but you.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take the car and then have a service bring it back around.  Tomorrow, maybe?  If that’s not too much of an inconvenience for you.”

I finally look over at him.  That stupid smile is still on his face.  I am glad I am making you so happy, John.

“That is fine.  I should not be needing it for a couple of days.”  I try not to let him see me pout.

“There’s plenty of food in the fridge. You should be good unless there’s an emergency of some type.  If so, give Mrs. Saddlemen a call, she’ll be glad to give you a lift. If it's a true emergency, say like, you cut off a finger, dial 999.”

"I am not a child, John, I know how to call emergency services."

He cocks an eyebrow at my declaration that I am not a child.  Really, John?

He grasps a suitcase handle in each hand and rolls them to the door.  Out the door. To the boot of the car.  Next go the boxes.  They all fit.  Drat.

John moved in with little but his personal belongings.  Since the cottage was already furnished, he sold or gave away all he had save for a few sentimental items.  Sentiment.  Hmpf.  He walks around and picks them up, carefully packing them with yesterday’s newspaper and then placing them into a box.

The entire time I lay on the couch watching him. 

I will be fine.  I will be fine.  I will be fine, I chant.  For the most part believing what I say.  I lived quite adequately for many years without John Watson; I can do it again. 

I will be fine.  I think.

John takes his jacket off the hook and puts it on.  He looks around the room, checking to see if he is leaving anything important.

Me, John.  Me.

He walks over to where I still lie on the sofa.

“Sit up.  Come on, it will be easier to kiss you good bye properly if you’re sitting up.  I won’t go so far as to ask you to actually _stand_ up, I know how difficult that can be for you.”  He smirks.  Ahh, good.  Smirky John, I missed you.

Still 'no'.

“All right.  Have it your way, then.” He leans down and pecks my lips with his own; they are gone too quickly.  He stands upright and turns to leave.

I throw my feet off the side of the couch, careful not to kick him, and sit up. He is still close enough for me to latch onto his jacket.  I pull him to me and grab both lapels, pulling his face down to mine.  He sits beside me and I hold his perfect face in my hands and kiss him.  Never have his lips tasted so sweet, never has his tongue been so entrancing.  I memorize every nanosecond in case I never get to kiss him again.  I almost cry at the thought.  Never to kiss John again; nothing has ever made me sadder. 

I cling to his mouth; I do not want to let go.

But he pulls away from me.  My heart weeps.

“It’s time for me to go, Sherlock, if I want to get to the city in time to get the flat key.”

“Will I see you again, John?  I have to see you again.  When I said you should move out I did not mean I do not want to friends anymore.”

Friends, not lovers.  It sounds so...so sterile.

“Of course, you will.  It’s a long drive so we can visit every month or so.  Or if you’re in the city, feel free to pop in.  As long as I’m home, that is.”

“Texting.  Can we still text?”  I am almost desperate now. 

“Yes, love,” (‘love’!) we can text, and even call, if you like.  I’m not falling off the face of the Earth you know; I’ll just be in London.”

He is still smiling.  I am glad I have meant so much to him that nothing will make him so happy as to leave me.

“Are you not unhappy to leave?  Will you not miss me?”

“Unhappy?  No.  This is what you want, that’s what you said.  I’ll be happy if you’re happy and I know you will be because that big, beautiful brain of yours will have all the time in the world to think.  Will I miss you?  I suppose for a while, but I’ll have other things to do and soon it will be as if all of this has never happened.  I’ll be just fine.”

Miss me.  For ‘a while’.  What happened to ‘I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.’  How quickly you forget, John.

I stand up and walk with him to the door.  I do not hold his hand or I fear I will not let him go.

I watch him get into the car, send me a little wave and a smile, and drive off.  Standing in the doorway I watch and wave until long after he can see me, just as he did when Katie left. 

Now I know why he looked so sad.

* * *

 

I am free!  I am free to think and to plant in the garden, bringing all the dirt in the house on my shoes that I like, and stay up all night making noise without being yelled at.  I am delighted to realise there will be other benefits to John moving out other than having room in my brain to think.

What else?

I do not have to sleep hours and hours and I do not have to cuddle and I do not have to kiss him…

Maybe this was not such a good idea.  I will be free to think but there will be so many wonderful things I will miss. 

I go into the kitchen and set up my test tubes.  I need to create a pesticide for the foxglove infestation. 

I stick my neck out, but as hard as I try, from where I sit I cannot see John’s chair.  John’s old chair, I mean.  I have to see it.  I drag the table a few feet over.  There!

It does not help.  Well, maybe a little.

I go to the drying rack and pick out his favorite tea mug.  I take it with me and set it on the table, right by the microscope.  It is light and portable so it will be easy to carry it around the house with me when I leave the kitchen.

I go back to mixing the pesticide concentrate.

Throw!  I need the throw.  I hurry to John’s chair, which has never been out of my sight since I moved the table.  I am not cold, but John’s throw will comfort me until I can get over my disease.  Before I wrap it over my shoulders, I lift it to my nostrils and breathe deeply.  It smells just like John, just like soap and after shave and a little hint of the cologne he wore when we went to the play last week.  I put it on.  It is warm.  Like john.

I sit back down at the table, and think.

And think.

And think.

Think about John…

* * *

 

I am sitting at the table when I hear a car coming up the drive.  I wearily lift my head and look out the window.

It looks like…no, it cannot be!

John!

John is home!

I run to the door and fly through it, reaching the car door just as John is getting out.  I throw myself around him, hugging him so close to me there is the very real possibility he is not able to breathe.  I do not want to smother him, but I cannot help it.

John mumbles something but I cannot understand him.  I push him back just far enough so his mouth is no longer buried in my chest and he can speak.

“John!  You are back!”

“Yeh, I forgot something.”

I let go of him and step back.  My heart sags and my head drops.  There is something in the house he left behind. 

“What did you forget?”  My voice is heavy with sadness; he will be leaving again.

His finger tucks under my chin, lifting it so I can see his face.  He is still smiling.  Here I am miserable without him and he is happy.

Be well, John.

“You.  I forgot to take you.”

“But, but…”

“But, what?”

“But, you seemed so happy to leave, as if there was nothing else you would rather do.

“How long have I been gone?”

I think. 

“Twenty-three days.  I can tell because of where the sun is sitting.  It’s…”

John holds his watch up to my face.  “What time is it Sherlock?”

“Four-thirty five.”  I am puzzled, why is he asking me this?  Why did he not look at the watch himself?

“And what time did I leave? Hmmm?”

“I do not know ; I do not pay attention to such trivia.”

“Yes, you do.  Now what time did I leave?”

He has caught me.  “Four-o-six and thirty-seven seconds.”

“Which means I’ve been gone less than a half hour.  Sherlock, you can’t even function for a half-hour whilst I’m gone.  I know you don’t like it, but this is what happens when someone falls in love.  And like it or not, you aren’t going to get over it by sending me away.  Trust me, it will only make it _harder_ for you to think.”

I think he is saying something because his lips are moving, but I cannot hear him.  All I can hear is the pounding of my heart as it sends the blood rushing to my head.  It sounds not unlike when I listened to John’s heartbeat this morning in his bed.

His mouth is still moving.  Perhaps I should listen to what he is saying.

“…I’m not saying I’m perfect at the relationship thing, hell, I’ve made huge mistakes, but I’ve learned a few things.  And one thing I know is that one of the only ways I can be happy is if _you’re_ happy.  I would never,  never try to get in the way of your thinking; I know how important it is to you.  And if we work on it together, _together,_ Sherlock, then we can fix this _and_ be happy.  Does that make any sense at all?”

I nod my head up and down.  Yes, John.  You are so beautiful and I missed you so much and please, please do not listen to me if I ever say something so stupid again.  I love you, John.

“Do not make unilateral decisions; that is what you are saying. Though if I may be given a pass for just one more?”

“And what would that be, Mr. Holmes?”  The side of his mouth quirks up as he tries to figure out what will come out of mine.  Secretly, I think this is one of the reasons he finds me so intriguing, he never knows what I am going to say.  He doesn’t know if it is going to make him happy, or mad, or thoughtful, or perplexed.  Whatever it is it I always seem to surprise him; I am a walking Jack in the Box. 

“We are going to take your things back into the cottage, unpack them, and then you are going to kiss me until I cannot breathe.”

“Uh, Sherlock, I can’t do that.”

My body droops.  I have gone too far this time.  I have finally driven John away.

“We can take the baggage into the house and I would be happy, oh so happy, to kiss you until you can’t breathe, but I can’t unpack.”

“I am sorry, John.  I did not mean to hurt your feelings. Please unpack.”

John looks shocked.   I am not so unaware as to not know it is because I offered an apology, an event more rare than a Welsh Red Kite sighting, and said ‘please’. 

He collects himself.  “I can’t _un_ pack because I never packed; everything is still in my room.  Well, except for the few things you saw me cart off from the sitting room.”

It is my turn to be shocked.  He tricked me.

“You tricked me! You, you…”  I am not good with colloquial insults. 

“Yes, I’m a sodding twat; I believe those are the words you were looking for.  So, if you agree, we will take the luggage and boxes back in, we’ll talk about how you can get your thinking powers back, and _then,_ we are going to snog our faces off...for as long as we like.  What do you think about that?”

I stare into his eyes.  I love you, Dr. Watson.  You are good and kind and wise and smarter than anyone I have ever known, except for me.  I cannot think of anything else but you.  There is nothing else I want to think about.

“I can agree with that plan," I say, "except the snogging part.  That has to come first.”

He puts his hand on the back of my neck and pulls me down and kisses me.

Do not ask me what happened after that, for I have no idea.  All I know is it involved John Watson.

Nothing else matters.


	6. I fear death, but not my own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes care of John. No, that is not a typo!

“Shit!

“Bugger!

“Fuck!”

I freeze mid-prune on my prized Queen Victoria heirloom rose.  I have not heard John use such profanity in so long that whatever grievance I have caused him must be of a very grave nature.  Maybe if I stand still enough, when he comes out to the garden to find me, he will not notice in his blind rage that my head is not an abnormally large bloom.

“Dammit!”

I cringe.

He has stumbled upon the jar of maggots, then, mistaking its contents for rice pudding.  I am dismayed; not only due to my forthcoming early demise, but that not even John is observant enough to notice the difference between larvae and his favorite dessert.

“Sherlock!!”

Ohhh, this is bad. 

“Sherlock!” 

Instead of anger, this time my name sounds to be a call of distress.  My pruners drop with a thud onto the soil beneath and I rush inside.  Maybe the Russian mob I so deftly eluded many years ago has finally caught up with me and they have taken John hostage, using him as a bargaining chip to secure my capture.  Maybe the local butcher discovered I ‘borrowed’ his favorite carving knife and has come to find me, brandishing his second favorite.

Maybe Mycroft is here.

“John!  John!  Where are you?!”  I hear fear in my voice as I call out to him.  I am scared.  Nothing, _nothing_ , can happen to my beloved John.  I would be lost without him.

‘In. the. kitchen.’  This time he is breathless, as if he given up the fight.  My dearest John, I loved you so much.

I find him in the kitchen just as he said he was.  Alone.  No Russian mob, no butcher.  No Mycroft.  Stooped over, looking at the floor.  I heave a sigh of relief; he is not in harm’s way. 

All I see is a carton of milk, its contents spreading across the tile, still trying to make a run for it as it creeps to the baseboard.

I look at him and he is grimacing, holding onto his side.

“My back.  My back went out.  Shit.  This hasn’t happened in ages.  I’ve been doing the exercises just like the therapist said.  All I did was get the milk out of the fridge, felt a pinch in my back, and now here I am.  I can’t move Sherlock.  I can barely breathe.”

He sucks in air, trying to catch his breath as if to convince me; he need not do so, I am far too observant to miss the fact that he is in agony.  

“Do not hyperventilate, John.  Please.”  I am at a loss as to what to do for him; seeing my John in pain makes me hurt, too.  I start to breathe heavily along with him.  My back starts to ache.  A moan escapes me.

“No, Sherlock, you do _not_ get to have sympathy pains! Just help me get to my bed, will you, love?” 

‘My’ bed?  When did it become ‘my’ bed?  I thought it was ‘our’ bed now.  Has he so quickly tired of me and kicked me out, sending me back to the hinterlands of my old room?

“Sherlock? Uh, now?”

“Yes.  Of course, John.”  I will bring my concern to his attention at another time; it is of little importance when he is in such pain.

“John?”

He gasps as if something stabs at him.  “Wha-a-t?” He breathes out heavily.

“Do you no longer want me to sleep with you?”

Panting, he turns his head toward me, barely able to meet my eyes from where he is contorted, and gives me his ‘What the _fuck_ ’ face.  Truly, if there was an Olympic event for the ‘What the _fuck'_   face, he would achieve the Gold Medal; he has perfected his execution to such a degree I am certain judges across the world would unanimously declare it a ‘10’.  The medal will look very nice in a glass case on our mantle.  I will take half-credit for it, of course, since John would not have been able to obtain it without my inspiration.

Back to what I was saying.

“I was just wondering, because you said ‘my’ bed and I do not want to go back to sleeping alone...”

“Really not the point right now, Sherlock.  Now, will you help me, please.”

I will ask him another time when he is not so agitated.  Perhaps after I send him to anger management class.

I take his arm to steady him as he shuffles toward his (!) bed.  (I wonder if I am going to have to ask for a visitor’s pass from here on out.  Humph.) 

With his guidance, for I have not suffered such a malady and do not know what to do, I put pillows between his legs and under his head.  Fetching the heating pad, I plug it in and lay it on him. 

After some time he asks me to retrieve the mentholated balm out of the bathroom cabinet; he is now relaxed enough to lie on his stomach and he has requested I rub it on him.

I push his shirt up and pull his jeans and pants down (just a little!).  Even though we have slept together every night since that first kiss that literally left me breathless, never have I seen him without a shirt.  I stare at his flesh.

“What are you doing?  Are you going to rub some of that on me?  The lower back; just massage some of it in.”

My hands are poised over him and I realise I do not know what to do.  I have never massaged a live human being before, and corpses are beyond the need for further relaxation.

“What do I do, John?”

“You put pressure on my muscles with your fingers and push firmly into them in a rhythmic motion.”

I put my fingers to his lower back and push.

“OW!  _Not_ like that.  You don’t _poke_ me!”

I feel his skin on my fingers.  It is extra warm where the heating pad has been.  I do not move.  I cannot.  Just the feel of him beneath me sends me orbiting around the earth; I wonder if I will make it back to solid ground.

John has not noticed I have gone into orbit and tries to give me references to learn how to massage him.

“Have you ever made bread, Sherlock?”  

“No.”

“Rubbed a chicken or turkey with butter?”

Disgusting.

“No.”

“Okay, then.  How about pretending you’re feeling along the surface of harvested brain for bullet holes.”

“ _That_ I can do.” 

I put some balm on my fingers and feel for bullet holes.  Thankfully there are none; the one he has in his shoulder is one too many.

“Yes, that’s it.

“Yes.  Mmmm hmmm.”

He quits talking and I hear deep noises coming from him in rhythm with my hands.  Not deep like pain, but like….pleasure.

“Am I doing it right?”

“Yes, honey, you are very much doing it right.”

His eyes are closed and he looks content.

Suddenly he emits sharp ‘oww!’.

“John! I am sorry!  I will stop; I do not want to hurt you further.”

“No, it’s okay, don’t stop.  It will hurt sometimes, but that’s not a bad thing.  It means you’re working some of the kinks out.”

My own back starts to ache from the angle at which I am massaging him.

I lift myself to my knees and straddle his legs.  Much better, I am no longer imbalanced.

He does not seem to mind my new position, in fact he seems to almost be…purring.  Interesting.  I have never thought of him as catlike.  A cougar, perhaps?  No, a lion.  Yes, most definitely a lion.

“Are you feeling better?”  I hope I am not misreading the noises he is making and he is in too much in pain to communicate it verbally.

“Yes, much.  Thank you.”

I am relieved to hear this, but disappointment washes over me that he appears to be finished with my ministrations.  It is not often… No, that is a lie.  I never commit acts that bring pleasure to others, not out of selflessness, anyway.  I am finding that it is very gratifying to help someone.  Help John.  I do not want to stop.

“Don’t stop, no…no.  That feels good.”  He is practically crooning now.

I put my hands back on him and close my eyes, rubbing, kneeding, needing (yes, you heard that one right); the rhythm of the motion, the softness of his skin, the firmness of his body lulling me into a trance.  Without prior knowledge of what I am about to do, I lean down and press my lips to the dip in his lower back, the mentholated balm hot against my mouth.  ‘Or is it John who is burning my skin’, I hazily wonder.

His breath is now deep and even; I have put him to sleep.

I stretch up and kiss his cheek.  I nudge my fingers through his hair where it is beginning to curl at the base of his skull, the shiny grey hair mixed in with the darker grey fascinating.  He looks peaceful; I do not think I have ever seen him look so beautiful.

I am not tired, but I pull his shirt down and his bottoms back up to cover him, and bring the blanket from the bottom of the bed and pull it over us both.

Propping up on my elbow, I watch him do nothing but _be_.

That is all I need from him...just to be.

I cannot lose him.

* * *

 

Though John’s back has nearly returned to normal, I have just finished giving him another backrub (a ritual I hope we practice for many years to come) and we are sitting at the breakfast table.  I with my laptop, and John with the morning paper.

Despite my extraordinary capacity to concentrate, blocking out anything else going on around me, as I search the internet for information on tea toxicity, out of the corner of my eye I see John pick up his freshly brewed mug of tea and lift it to his mouth. 

I do not have to reach far to whisk the mug away from him before he takes a sip, since I have now taken to sitting within arms-length of him as often as practicable (assuredly, it is almost _always_ practicable). 

Well, when I say ‘whisk’…

“Sherlock!” 

He startles so easily. 

Quickly dropping his now soggy paper, he gapes at me and then at the spilt tea on the table and then at his mug that has bounced twice and come to a halt several feet away, unscathed.

“What in the _hell_ did you do that for?”

“No need to thank me, John.  Saving your life is just one of the many things I am willing to do as your..your…  I know I am I your lover, but am I, uhm, your boyfriend, John?”

John smiles at me.  My heart goes flippity flip. 

“Yes, of course, you are.”  He picks up my hand (yes, the hand that has just so bravely put itself at risk to save his life) and kisses each finger, gentle caresses which make my knees weak.  I am grateful my knees are not being used right now to hold me upright or else I fear they would fail quite miserably in their mission.  His mouth has left wet patches where it touched me, but I do not mind; he is leaving a bit of himself with me. The thought flits through my mind that I may never wash those fingers again, but I quickly push it aside; I will just have to ask him to kiss them again.  And again.

“So then, love, _why_ did you knock my mug away?  Did you forget to wash out the poison you were holding in it?”  On his way to the kitchen to get a towel, he says this half-jokingly, knowing all too well it is something I am quite capable of.

“No, John, there was no poison in your mug.  I would never pour a lethal substance in a container you drink out of; that is what I use bowls for.”

He blanches. 

I try to look innocent, but he sees the mischief in my eyes and knows I am teasing him.  He laughs.

“Sherlock!  You made a joke!”

The grin I offer him is not forced.  It is easy to smile when I am around John, especially now that I am In Love.

“So, seriously.  Why don’t you want me to drink my tea?” 

How do I tell him this?

“The other day when Katie left, I started thinking about how much tea you drink when you are sad, so I started searching for studies on the possibility of toxicity since you drink so much of it. I do not want you to hasten your death, John.”

He puts the towel down and holds my hand. 

I swallow the lump in my throat that has formed there.

“I’m not sad now.  And besides, I’ve drunk tea all my life and don’t seem to be any worse for wear.  If tea was lethal there would be no people left in Britain.  Except maybe for you.”

He thinks he is amusing, but I am not persuaded by his anecdotal analysis of the hazards of tea drinking.

His thumb is making lazy circles on my palm.  He has forgotten the tea on the table.

I turn my laptop screen so he can see it, the webpage banner that blazes “Tea- What you don’t know CAN kill you!”

John scans the information, reading it aloud.  “Ostoeflourosis, Alzheimer’s, urinary and digestive system disruption, premenstrual syndrome…  Now, that last one that frightens me!”

“This is no laughing matter, John!  Drinking tea can cause serious complications to your health!”  I am highly annoyed that he is not taking my concern seriously.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”  (He does not _sound_ as if he is sorry.)  “But I don’t think drinking tea is going to negatively impact my health.  People all over the world have been drinking it for centuries and it’s well-documented that tea-drinking has many positive effects on people’s health.  So tell me, what is this _really_ about?  Hmmm?”

His thumb. 

On my palm.

I cannot.

Think.

“I uhm…”

“You ‘uhm’, what, Sherlock?”

 “I, uh…John.  I am afraid you are going to die.” 

Round and round his thumb draws little circles on me.

Maybe _I_ am going to die…death by John.

John’s brow creases.  “But we all die, Sherlock.  We are born, we live our lives, and then we die.  That’s how it works.  But, tea?  Why tea?  I drive a car, that’s statistically a lot more dangerous than drinking tea.  I breathe the bloody fumes that sit in the house whilst you do your experiments; hell, that has to be a _lot_ more dangerous than driving a car.”  He laughs.

I take umbrage at the implication I would ever put his life at risk, well, at least not since before he married.  I distinctly recall the time I used him as bait for… 

I digress.

“I am very careful to properly aerate the house whilst I am doing my research, and you are a very good driver.”

“Then why _tea_?”  He sobers, no longer laughing; he sees how serious I am.

I am frustrated by his obliviousness.

I practically bark out, “Because I can _control_ how much tea you drink, John!  Or whether it is a brand that is laden with pesticides or contains artificial ingredients that cause cancer.”

It is rare that I get truly angry, but I do not believe that is the emotion I am feeling.  I do not think it is fear, either.  If I am honest, I think it is terror.  Terror that I may have to one day live without the person most singular amongst all others.  Someone who has become a very part of me.

“I do not want you to die, John.  And whilst I know I cannot prevent that from happening, there are measures I can take to see that it does not happen for a long, long time.  You are older than me and even if you stay healthy, the possibility of me outliving you is something I do not want to think about.  I…I…do not want to live without you.”

The tenderness I see on his face almost causes me to lose whatever composure I have left.  This, _this_ is why I cannot lose him.  No one in my life has ever looked at me this way and, I know without a doubt, no one else ever will.

“Oh, Sherlock, honey.  Come here.”

The hand that has not left mine gently leads me to the sofa.  He lies down, pulling me with him.   We have no choice but to fit tightly against each other in the slight space, not that we would want it any other way.  He presses my head to his chest where I can hear his heartbeat, strong and steady.

“Listen to that. It’s strong, Sherlock.  Despite all the tea drinking, the driving, the damn war, and every other peril it has endured.  I am not going to say that I won’t die before you do, but I promise you I will try my very, very best to never leave you alone.  Besides, I don’t want to miss a moment of this, of being with you; the thought of losing out on even _one minute_ with you will keeping me going long past the time you tire of me.”

His flannel shirt is soft against my cheek; it is comforting.  But not as much as the truth I hear in his voice, in his promise that he will never leave me alone, without him.  Not if he can help it.

I feel his face in my hair and he kisses my head, his lips lingering on me as he says without a word how very much he cares about me.

I cannot help myself; such a rush of happiness hits me I cannot remain serious.

“What if I am already tired of you?”  I tease. (This teasing business is very simple; even an idiot could do it with a little practice.)

“Git.”

“Idiot.”

“I love you, too, Sherlock.  And as brilliant as you are, I don’t think you have a clue how much.”  He holds me tighter.

“How about we clue for looks?”  I say, slyly.

He laughs.  “I almost forgot about that!”

I did not.  I remember every moment. 

Every moment of John.


	7. The Case of My Little Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is determined find out why his lips burned when he kissed John's back. He may just drive them both crazy in the process.

“I’m _not_ your bloody housekeeper, you know!  I don’t know what you did before I came along.  And you could help once in a while, you…”

I hear noise in the distance. I think it is John’s voice, or maybe a vacuum cleaner… I am not quite sure. 

Smoothing my fingers across my lips, I am lost in thought. 

John says he has found Heaven in my lips.  He says they are ‘rosy’ and ‘lush’, an ‘erotic treasure’ he could lose himself in for days and days and he does not care one bit if he is never found. 

When _I_ feel them, they remind me of the plump worms I find in my garden.  I shrug.  If worms make John happy, then who am I to try to dissuade him of his romantic notions?

But I also feel something else- a vivid remembrance of the tingle, no, the almost electric volt I felt when I so impulsively kissed his back whilst I massaged him.  Just the memory of it makes me shiver with excitement.  As alive as I feel when I kiss his mouth, the way my body warms and my oxygen molecules counteract the natural order of science, kissing the small dip in his back took me to a realm of other-worldliness I have never before known.

‘Why?’ I wonder.  Why cannot I stop thinking about John’s back?  Why was it my lips _burned_ when they pressed against his skin? 

This quandary has been vexing me for days.

“Sherlock.  Do you think you could _at least_ take out the garbage.  I really would like…”

I flap my hand in his general direction, “Shut up.”  I am busy, John.

The noise stops.  All of a sudden it is _too_ quiet.  Have I hurt his feelings and caused him to sulk?  Oh, wait.  That is what _I_ do.  I cock an ear and soon hear him putting the vacuum cleaner away and start to clean the kitchen table; beakers and microscopes are picked up and placed back down with a slam.  (Gently, John.  They are not indestructible, you know.) 

I return to thinking about John’s back.

I have been pondering its mysteries without cessation.  I need to know what it was I felt.  And why.  Was it the balm touching my lips that caused them to burn?  Or was it something else?  I need to know. 

I need to know as soon as possible.  

In the subsequent backrubs I have given him, the urge to recreate the incident has been almost overpowering.  I would rub my hands along his offending muscles, he would purr, and just when I thought he was about to fall asleep, giving me the opportunity to reach down and seek my answer, he would roll over and smile at me as if I have just performed a miracle.  A beatific smile that made my stomach tie up in little knots and made me feel as if I _could_ do anything. 

Only because of you, John.  Only _for_ you.

Frustrated by my thwarted attempts to solve the case of the mysterious back, I open a new case.  I shall call it The Case of My Little Soldier.  (John would do well to follow my example; the lack of sentiment and whimsy in its title make it a model to be admired and emulated.) 

The thought of solving my case makes me dizzy with anticipation; at its conclusion I will have the heady pleasure of once again touching that most sacrosanct of places, the small of John’s back.   I shake the image from my mind.  Though I will assuredly unravel the mystery, it will do me no good to allow myself to be distracted by the end result, else I will sit here in a daze and accomplish nothing.

I must make a plan.

**Step 1** :  See John’s back.  Is there a radiance there which differs from the rest of him, a visible glow which somehow indicates its distinctiveness?

**Step 2** :  Feel John’s back.  I stifle a whimper at the thought of doing so, the ecstasy it will surely bring.  Blowing a heavy breath out to right myself, I resolve to only touch it with my hand.  Surely to touch John with my fingers will produce similar results as with my lips, and to do so will make my actions less obvious. 

I am pleased with the simplicity of my plan.  After all, how difficult can it be to successfully execute?

As it turns out, surprisingly so.

The first time I see John after creating my plan, he is emerging from the loo fresh from his shower, dressed in a robe.  Sitting on the bed where I have been plotting, I mentally chastise myself for coming so late to my mission; it would have been ridiculously easy to walk in on him as he showered.  Oh, I realise, I would have seen much, much more than his back.  My cheeks flush hotly at the vision that flashes through my mind.  Maybe it would not have been a good idea after all.

He rubs his head with a towel as he walks to his closet, wrapping the towel around his neck as he chooses his days’ clothing.

Ha!  I am brilliant!  I am already accomplishing Step 1 within moments of implementation!  He will need to change into his shirt and jeans and I will be able to see the object of my fascination in the process.  Whilst he is in the process of changing, I will dash off the bed, touch his back and dash back to where I sit.  He will be none the wiser.

I puff up with pride at my cunning. 

Pretending to be engrossed with the screen in front of me, I surreptitiously watch him remove an oxford shirt and pair of jeans from their hangars.  I wait, any moment now he will have to disrobe.  My eyes trained about half way down his form, I wait for a glimpse of the sight that is as rare as sunshine on a Welsh morning.

Squinting, watching through my eyelashes to more keenly focus, I wait... poised to take action.

Unexpectedly John turns and looks at me.

Quizzically, he asks, “Are your eyes bothering you?” 

John!  Turn around!  I cannot see your back!

He hears me. (“Well, if you’re not going to answer…”)  He turns around and….

… walks back into the loo with nary an additional square centimeter of skin exposed.  He is going to dress behind the closed door.

!!!!!

I am briefly disappointed, but I console myself with the thought that were it too easy to achieve my end, the prize would be less sweet.  My initial failure only serves to strengthen my resolve.

* * *

 

The Subject stands at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes. 

Whistling, I walk over and stand beside him.

“John, where are the towels?”

“They are in the closet outside the loo like they always are.”

“I looked in there.  All I saw were bath towels.”

He looks confused.  “What are you looking for then?”

“Dish towels.”

“Why?”  His face scrunches even more dramatically as he appears to try to solve the mysteries of the Universe.  Please, John, do not hurt yourself.

“I want to help you with the dishes.”  I roll my eyes.  Obviously.  Why else does one use dish towels?

John stops what he is doing, his brush hovering over the pot he has been scrubbing. 

His perfect, beautiful face turns toward mine.  Anger, happiness, confusion, frustration…love.  I am unaware of what expression it holds; it is of no consequence when such a vision of loveliness is gracing me with its presence. I am enraptured.  My breathing grows shallow and I lean in to kiss his beckoning mouth as he looks up at me, his eyes warming with affection.

Down, down, my mouth lowers to meet his. I moisten my lips in preparation, already feeling slightly dizzy from the sweetness that will soon meet them. Down…

NO!

I jerk up to my full height and thrust my shoulders back in determination. I must not be deterred from my mission, no matter what devious methods he uses to distract me.

“Ok, if you want to help, be my guest.”  His eyebrows knit together, clearly dismayed at my refusal of his kiss. 

Shaking his head, he opens a drawer and hands me a bright yellow towel. 

I dry several items and then, with a performance worthy of a BAFTA, I fumble a knife.  It flies into the air and, with a precise two and three-quarters rotation, lands at his foot.  Now he will have to pick it up, and in doing so, his shirt will pull away from his jeans and I will be able to see his back. To then touch it will be an easy task.

I beam with pride; I can hear the applause as I accept my award for Most Clever Actor.  Thank you!  Thank you!  (I know most would not think I know of such a triviality as a BAFTA , but many years ago Mrs. Hudson started dragging us to her flat for BAFTA parties.  She said it reminded her of her younger days when she was a starlet; in what kind of films I have never dared to ask.) 

“What the _hell_?!”  John looks down at his foot and then lifts his head to look at me, his mouth gaping open.

When I look down I feel myself grow pale at the sight of the knife sticking out of his sandal, millimeters from his toe.  Perhaps in my enthusiasm my calculations were slightly off.  Perhaps.

“Oh, that is where it went,” I say.

Reaching down and pulling the blade from the leather, I nonchalantly dry it and place it in the rack.  At least, my hope is I look nonchalant, for inside I am trembling at nearly scarring for life the man who is without flaw.  Maybe if I pretend it did not happen John will quickly forget.

I feel John staring at me expectantly. He has not forgotten.

“Well?”  He inches closer to me, forcing me to look at him.  Look at eyes that appear to wish me a slow and painful death should I give the wrong answer.

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to explain to me what that was about?” He demanded.  “You are _not_ clumsy, so I’m guessing, just _guessing_ , you did that on purpose.  Come on, out with it.  Why do you want to maim me?” 

“I…”

“You, _what_?”

He can be so very persistent.  Annoyingly so.

“It was an accident, John.  I have been practicing knife-throwing in the event we have a burglar.  Since you forbid a firearm in the house, a hypocrisy I find laughable given that you for many years carried an illegal gun everywhere you went,” I pause and glare at him in accusation.  “I want to make sure I have a way of protecting us against an intruder.  I am doing it to keep _you_ safe.”  I say this with all the indignation of someone who has been terribly wronged.

He eyes me intently for a few more moments, then turns back to scrubbing his pot.  I can see he is not entirely convinced, but in the spirit of harmony, decides not to pursue the matter. 

That was close.  Too close.  I must not reveal my intentions.  And I must not, _must_ not accidentally kill him in the process; it would ruin everything.

I can see my attempts at creating a suitable opportunity will not suffice.  I will have to be bold and make a more direct attack.

I wait to strike, giving John time to calm down.  I spend the evening reading, researching articles on the internet, and playing my violin, never straying too far from him.

Around 8 p.m. he gets up to fetch a snack from the refrigerator.  Perfect. 

I walk over to the freezer on the pretense there is a specimen I need to retrieve.  I set off the alarm on my watch to make it seem as if I have been timing my study.

“Ahh, John!  Fancy meeting you here.  Excuse me, I need to take out the custom pesticide I mixed.  I theorized that if I froze it for 2 days and 53 minutes it will reach maximum effectiveness for killing the digitalis purpurea infestation.

Instead of reaching for the freezer, I swat his back.

“Spider, John!”

“What?!”

“No!  Stand still, I think I have it.”  I pat at his back and try to pull up his shirt in my attempt to solve my case, but he keeps trying to squirm away from me.

“Sherlock!  Don’t pull my shirt up!  I don’t want the bloody thing crawling underneath.  Jesus.”

He swats at my hand and I step away.  Defeated.

“It is gone, John.  It will not bother you anymore.”  I cannot feel more dejected.  It is almost unknown for me to fail and I do not like it one bit.  Especially when it is mystery I so desperately need to solve.  My very life depends on it.

He turns around and looks at me.

“Ok, just what are you up to?”  He demands, folding his arms across his chest. 

At ease, soldier.

I look around as if there might be someone else in the room.  Seeing no one, I look back at him and ask, “Who?  Me?”

“Yes, _you_.  What other 183 cm consulting detective has been lurking around me all day, behaving bizarrely?”  Exasperated, he mutters under his breathe, “But how I can expect anything different from _you_ I have no idea.  You’re the poster child for ‘bizarre’.”

“Lurking?  I am hurt, John.  Why would I have to _lurk_ in my own home?  I am simply going about my everyday routine.  It is not unreasonable to believe we will occasionally occupy the same space at certain points during the day, after all, we do _live_  together.”  I use my most imperious tone, showing him how ridiculous he is being.

He cocks his head, his glare turning into an expression of suspicion. 

I do not budge. I glare back at him, daring him to call me a liar.

Shaking his head, he walks away, still muttering.  Something about ‘mental case’ and ‘padded room.’

Admittedly, this is not the end result I desired; I have no wish to cause John frustration.  All I merely want to do is find out what it is about that one tiny speck of him that is slowly driving me mad.  Perhaps he is right; maybe I _do_ belong in a padded room.

The rest of the evening he is quiet, watching telly, a beer in his hand that he rarely brings to his mouth.  I do not think he dislikes the beer, I think he is thinking.  Thinking about what, I have no wish to know.  At 11 o’clock, I watch him go to bed without saying a word, without taking my hand.  Without folding his fingers with mine and telling me that nothing brings him more happiness than to be with me.   

I sit in my chair; I do not know what to do.  Do I follow him and lay down beside him as if nothing is wrong, as if I am still welcome?  Or do I go to my old room and lie awake all night, silently begging his forgiveness, hoping he will hear my heart crying out for him?

I sit. 

I sit.

I sit.

I sit, not knowing what to do, until finally the sweetest sound I have ever heard reaches my ears.  I hear John call out my name. 

“Sherlock.  Are you coming to bed anytime tonight, love?”

‘Love’!

John! Yes!  Thank you!  I promise to never, never make you angry again.  I love you so.  I am sorry, John.

“I will finish this chapter on beetle migration and be there in a few minutes.”

I stare at the book I hold in my hand, unable to see a single word.  My heart is racing; John still wants me.  He still loves me. 

I calm myself and walk into the bedroom.  It is dark and I fumble for my bedclothes.  I change into them after placing my day clothes on the chair back, and climb into bed, lying beside the only person I have ever been afraid to lose.

I do not touch him; I do not know if he wants me to.  But that is fine, I am happy just to be near him.  Happy to breathe the same air as him.  I lie on my back, my arms lying stiffly at my sides as they did that first night I slept with him.   It seems so long ago.

John’s hand gently clasps my wrist and pulls me so I roll over toward him, my arm coming to a rest across his chest.  I almost weep with relief that he has shown me so clearly that I am still wanted.  That he still needs me as I do him.

We lie quietly for some time, he smoothing my hair, and I listening to his heartbeat.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispers softly. 

“You?  Why are _you_ sorry?  I am the one who has annoyed you.”  I do not understand; John has done nothing wrong.  I am the one whose fixation is getting in his way. 

“I’m sorry because I shouldn’t get so angry with you.  It’s not like I don’t know who you are, Sherlock.  And the things that I sometimes find so annoying, well, they are the reasons I fell in love with you in the first place.  I envy your passion, the way something catches your attention and you won’t let go until you’ve figured it out.  I won’t ask what you were doing today, you’ll tell me if and when you want to.  But know _this_ , I love you exactly as you are, even if it drives me a little batty sometimes.”

His smile is wide as he kisses me. 

I kiss him back. 

I am passionate about _you_ John, and I do not think I will ever figure you out.  What a wonderful life it will be trying to do so.

We continue lying here, content in our silence.

His breathing becomes slow and steady and his hand stops moving, laying limp on my head.  He rolls over away from me to lie on his favored side, mumbling something unintelligible as he drifts into sleep. 

I lie wide awake, listening to him breath, waiting for him to fully go under.

I know what I am about to do is wrong, but I cannot help myself.  I still have not solved the mystery.

Very, very… _very_ cautiously I remove my arm from where it drapes over him.  He does not move; he continues to sleep.  I slink down the length of him, the sheet covering my head as I dip lower.  Lower.  Lower until my face is just in front of the concave in his back that has caused me so much consternation since I first touched it.  I gingerly pull his t-shirt from his body and press my mouth lightly to his skin.  He still does not stir. 

At first I am disappointed.  My lips do not burn as they did the first time I kissed him here; it was the balm after all.  But as I am not quick to move away, I find myself grow light-headed.  His skin is warm and soft, the tiny hairs there curious; I cannot help but reach my tongue out to touch it.  Just a little touch.  Just enough to see what he tastes like, if it is the same here as his mouth and lips. 

He is salty and smooth and my tongue is on fire.  As intimate as it is to be in his mouth, caressing this small part of him with my tongue feels so very, very much more so. 

I cannot contain the exultation I feel.  Inside I am awash with vibrant colors - red, orange, green - their radiance lighting me from within.  As I relish this new experience, I feel John stir lightly.

I sigh regretfully, I must not get caught.  With a force of self-control I have never known, I heartbreakingly tear myself away and put his shirt back where I found it.   Goodbye, dear back; I hope we meet again.

I crawl back up to where I was and put my arm back over John, holding him more snugly now than I did earlier.

He grunts.

“You alright, love,” he says sleepily.

“Yes, I am fine, John.”

He wraps his arm over mine and takes my hand.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?  Did you have a nightmare?  You’re trembling.”  This time he does not sound so sleepy.  He sounds worried.

For once my lightning quick mind cannot devise a lie.  Nightmare.  Yes, that is it. Thank you, John. 

“It was terrible, John.  I dreamed a swarm of locusts descended on my roses and there was not even a single leaf left behind.”

“I’m so sorry, love, I know how important your roses are to you.”

He rolls over to face me, nudging a knee between my own.  His hand is on my face, smoothing it along my cheek.

My heart is about to burst and I cannot withhold the words that fill my mind.

“I love you, John.”  I bite my lip, uncertain whether I have done the right thing. 

He opens his eyes and I see their whites clearly in the dark, the pupils dark against them as he looks at me.

“What brought this on, then?  Not that I mind being called ‘idiot’, but ‘I love you’ definitely has a different flavour and that isn’t what you usually say.”

Because I do love you, John, and I tell you all the time, you just do not hear me because I do not say it aloud.  I am not good with sentiment, surely you have noticed.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you John Hamish Watson.  With all my heart.

“I could not think of a gift to buy you for our anniversary so I thought that might be something you like.”

His eyes widen in surprise.  “Our anniversary?  And what anniversary would that be?”

Drat.  My sentiment is leaking out all over the place. 

“Our two week anniversary, of course.”

He chuckles and my heart flies on little wings, soaring through the air.

“Yes, of course.  Why didn’t I think of that!”

“Because you are an…”

“…idiot, I know.”  He finishes my sentence but he does sound not angry.  Instead he sounds happy.  Had I known all these years how much he likes being called an idiot I would have gladly obliged him every second of every minute of every day of every year.

“But, anniversary or not, I want to tell you because it is true.”  Because I just discovered a private part of you that sends thrills down my spine and I want to visit it again and again and it makes me love you all the more. 

I move my face closer to his, close enough so I can touch him with my tongue.  His lips part, inviting me in. 

I eagerly accept.

This kiss is different from any other we have enjoyed.  Always before, John has been gentle, almost cautious, as if he was afraid to scare me away or hurt me.  Softly shushing and cooing, breaking away every so often to see if I were all right. (Of course, I am alright!  I have a doctor here do I not?)

But this kiss, this one, is rough and urgent, as if he cannot get enough of me.  As if, if he could, he would swallow me whole.  His hands, at my back and head, press me firmly to him; I hold tightly to him lest he let go and I tumble off the bed.  His mouth covers mine, his tongue probing and demanding. His hand grabs my hair, and not so firmly that it hurts, he pulls my head back, opening my neck up to him.  His lips trail down it, pecking.  Pecking that turns into small nips, until he finally stops at the base and sucks. My mind is jelly.  My toes no longer exist.  His lips trail back up to mine, where he lingers, sucking them into his mouth, slow and deep.  I am gone… _I_ no longer exist.  He is purring.  I think I am, too. I cannot tell for sure, for all I can think of is that I cannot get enough of him, either.

When he finally releases me, I try to regain my senses.  Think of something, Sherlock.  Breath, Sherlock.  Who is Sherlock?

I gasp, catching my breath.  In my haze I am without defenses. Without caution.

“John.”

“Yes, honey?” His thumb strokes my neck and I cannot breath.

I am nervous.  Why I should be, how I even have the _energy_ to be, I do not know.  He will find out, he always does; I cannot hide anything from him indefinitely.

“John, I …”

“Yes?”

It is now or never.

“John, I kissed your back.”

“Yes, I know.”

You know?!  Why did you not tell me?  Why did you not shoo me away and tell me never to touch you there again?

“John.”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I, uhm,” I clear my throat.  Best to get everything out.  “I have kissed your back twice.”

There it is.  Perhaps I should ask John to wash my bedding since I will be back in my old room tonight.  I will be kind and tell him he can wait until morning; there is no need to rush.

“Yes, I know that, too, Sherlock.”  There is a smile in his voice.

“You do?  Why did you not say anything?!”  My words rush out.  “I am sorry, John.  I promise never to do it again.  Ever.”  I promise not to sneak in here from my bedroom and accost your back in the middle of the night whilst you are sleeping.  You are welcome; you deserve no less.

“Don’t you _dare_ promise never to do it again.” 

The sternness I hear in his voice overrides the words that accompany it.  He is angry again; he has told me to never dare do it again.

“I promise, John.  I…what?”  My brain catches up with his words; it is unlike me to be so slowwitted.  I pity ordinary people.  “You want me to _not_ promise to never do it again?”

“That’s what I said.”  This time he sounds amused.

If John wants me to not promise to never do it again, and two negatives make a positive, that means…

John reaches behind himself and pulls up the back of his t-shirt.  Just a little bit.  Just enough.  I am already starting to feel exceptionally warm before I even touch him.  He feels for my hand, and finding it, presses it against the skin he uncovered.

“Explore as much as you want, love, I am all yours.  Quite literally.”

He puts both hands on my face and with a tenderness that nearly causes me to become a puddle of flesh and melted bone, he kisses me and tells me, “I love you, too, Sherlock.  Everything I have, everything I am, is yours.”

When he lets go and turns away from me, I take me and my puddle below the covers and press my lips, my tongue, to him.  I kiss and lick and suck the patch of skin laid bare before me.  Soon his body is pressing into me and I am floating on a cloud.  

Of all he has ever done for me, of all he has given me, _this_ is by far the greatest gift. 

But he is not done giving.

Do you know what my man does then?  _My_ man?  He lifts his shirt all the way up and removes it, throwing it off the side of our bed.  I nearly faint, so heady is the expanse of John-skin before me. 

‘Where do I start?’ I wonder, my hands already starting to roam along him.  After brief consideration I decide I will treat this as any other case I solve. I will be slow and meticulous and make sure to cover _every_ piece of possible evidence with all the care and attention it requires.

I sigh with happiness, this will take me all night. 


	8. It all comes back to ME.  (Look, John!  I made a pun!) (No you didn't, Sherlock.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is jealous. Katie finds out about Johnlock. Sherlock discovers why John likes his back kissed. Oh, and John gets mad at Sherlock (just a few times), so mad he threatens to tie himself to Sherlock forever. It all ends well.

The side of John’s mouth crooks up as he lifts the envelope to his nose. 

I squint at him; he is unaware of the daggers I am throwing at him. 

Perfume (cologne?).  A smile.  An old lover, perhaps?  A _new_ lover?  My stomach threatens to heave its contents.  I cannot imagine John would cheat on me.  Surely there is no one for him but me?  But maybe he has found someone who does not anger him as I do.  Someone who promises to help with the housework and keep their experiments in a separate refrigerator.  Is it too late to change my ways, or have I already lost him?  I bite on my fingernail.

“John?”

“Hmmm?” 

He does not look over at me, instead continuing to inhale deeply from the festive envelope.  An invitation?  An invitation to a private tryst on an exotic island?  He _has_ been talking about taking a trip, reviewing travel brochures for tropical locations.  He says it is to start working on his ‘bucket list’.  I do not recall a romantic getaway with a lover other than me being on that list, but then, I have not seen the complete list.

“John!”

He looks over at me.  “What, love?”

‘Love’.  Is thatwhat you call _all_ your lovers?  I suppose it would make it easier so you do not inadvertently call one of us by the wrong name.  Hmmph.

“Would you like me to take out the garbage today?  Do the dusting, perhaps?”  I am very proud of my magnanimity.   I have never in my life dusted even one particle of dirt.  The ways in which I am willing to show my love for John are beyond comprehension.  

The smile disappears from his face, and he frowns.  He sets the invitation down, reaches over and presses the back of his hand to my forehead.

“You don’t have a fever.  Do you feel unwell?  Sometimes delirium doesn’t manifest itself with a high temperature, but it is rare.”

“Delirious?  I am perfectly well, John.  Is it not feasible I would be willing to help you without having lost my mental faculties? “

“Uhmm, I suppose so.”  He appears uncertain of the answer.  “Supposing that is the case, then why?”  He peers into my eyes, seemingly to look for latent madness.  I should never have told him my family’s medical history.

“Because I want to show you how much I love you.  Cannot someone do something _nice_ for the person they love without causing suspicion?”

“And?”  He ignores my second question.

“And what?”

“I’ve never known you to do one speck of housework, even after all the times I’ve asked you to help.  As I recall, you said ‘housework is for old ladies and others who have nothing better to occupy their minds and time’.  So something else must be up.  What is it, Sherlock?”

I am offended he thinks I have an ulterior motive.  Even if he is right. 

“I want to show you that I am just as worthy as your other lovers.  I will do whatever it takes to keep you, John.”

“My…my other _what_ ?!”

“Your other lovers.  Though, given your age and presumed diminished stamina, I may be overstating your ability to keep up with more than one.  One other than me, I mean.  So who is he?  Or perhaps I should say ‘she’?”

“I only have one lover.” He looks at the expression on my face and adds, “ _you,_ you dimwitted genius.  But if you keep this up, I may not have _any_ in a few minutes.”

Oh. 

I lick my lips and try a different approach. 

“Are you planning on leaving me, John?”  I do not think I want to hear the answer, but I must be brave.  If I am to build a new life on my own, it is best we acknowledge it so I can start right away.  Perhaps I will try to find a new roommate, someone with John’s particular skills.  Housekeeping will be at the top of the list.  I will condition the rental agreement on their promise we stay in our respective bedrooms; I can imagine no better kisser than John. 

Now he looks downright livid.

“I wasn’t, but _now_ I may be.  What brought this on?  And let’s be clear about this, since we’ve been together, I have not had anyone else, nor have I even thought about being with anyone but you.  One of you is more than enough to handle.”

I back down.  A little.

“The envelope.  You had a faraway look in your eyes whilst you smelled it.  You do not ordinarily receive such mail and you certainly do not go about sniffing it.  I presumed it must be from a lover who is trying to woo you through your olfactory senses.  You are a very attractive man, John, and I would blame no one for wanting to snatch you from me.”

“You presumed wrong.  Jesus.  Give you a few facts and it’s amazing the conclusions you come up with.  Not everything is nefarious.  And besides, no one can ‘snatch’ me from you; I don’t want to be ‘snatched’ by anyone but you.”

I am gratified to hear this.  I do not want to go through the immense amount of time and effort it would take to find a suitable replacement.  Tedious.

Besides, I would miss John. 

I must amend myself.  I would shrivel up into a tiny, tiny little ball and hide under the sofa with the other mites and drift towards a sad and lonely death.  No, John must stay.  With me.

He stands up, moves behind my chair, and wraps his arms around me.  Between little kisses on my neck and nibbles on my earlobe, he tells me why he was smiling so dreamily.  (How do you expect me to hear what you are saying, John, when my brain is growing fuzzy from your kisses.  A man can handle only so much stimulation at once.  Even someone with as capable an instrument as I.) 

“The invitation is to a wedding reception.  Katie’s best friend Maeve is getting married this weekend.  It only just came because she didn’t realise I was living here now.  I was enjoying the scent of it because it reminded me of that case we were on a long time ago.  You remember, the one where you figured out it was the mistress who murdered the husband because of the perfume on his handkerchief.  It’s the same scent.”

My hand is unsteady as it reaches for the envelope.  John is quite amorous today and it is causing me to lose muscle control.

Dr. John H. Watson and Guest.

“Are you attending?”  My voice is starting to shake, much as my hand is.  John’s tongue is the 8th Wonder of the World.  I wonder how to secure having it recorded as such.  Are there criteria to be met?  I have no doubt his would far exceed any expectations.

“Only if you will.  Will you be my guest, Sherlock?”

“You are sure you have no one else you would rather accompany you?”  I want to ‘put to bed’, if you will, the notion he might have another favored person in his life. 

He hums in my ear as the tip of his tongue slowly dances a path around its shell.  “I have you, and only you, love.”

I finally lose control over the muscles in my neck and my head lolls, coming to a rest on his shoulder.

“In that case John, I can think of…I can think of….”

Even if I want to think of anything else, I am unable, for John’s mouth has finally found mine and I can think of nothing but daisies and butterflies.

Pathetic.  

* * *

 

Having made our way to London the previous day, we are standing outside the church where Maeve’s reception is to soon commence.

As handsome as John looks in a button-up shirt, cardigan, and jeans, he looks deliciously more so in a suit and tie.  I straighten his tie, telling him we need to purchase him a tailored suit.  I do not press the matter, for I know  were I to make him more beautiful than he now is, I would have no hope of keeping him; suitors would be lining up outside the cottage to court him.  I make a mental note to brush up on my Bartitsu in the event I need to fend them off.

He sheepishly looks at guests walking by, nodding to the occasional acquaintance. 

“I’m not a little kid, Sherlock, I don’t need you to fuss over me,” he hisses, swatting my hands away.  “Don’t!  Just don’t!  You don’t need to slick my hair down, _or_ fix my tie, for Christ’s sake.”  He smiles at a woman bustling by, “Abigail, nice to see you.”

‘Jesus’, he mutters under his breath. “Besides, it’s not like I’m looking for a date.”  He puts his hands up to his tie to finish straightening it. 

“I should hope not!  If I am your lover and boyfriend, then obviously I am your date!”  I am suddenly perplexed, unsure if I am correct about the social norms.  “Am I?”

“Yes, you’re my date.  Of course, you are.  But could you keep your voice down please.  The whole world doesn’t need to know that, at least not until I’ve told Katie.” 

My hand fidgets at the side of my leg; there are too many people and too much gaiety and too much commotion. Dreadful.  I want to hold John’s hand, I know it will calm me, but he said we need to wait before we show public affection.  Why could he not have told Katie before we arrived?  Then I would be able to hold his hand and kiss him all I want without fear of being slapped.   But he said when he tried to tell her, tell her about _us_ , she suddenly had to hang up because the bride needed her.  Hmmph.  Not as much as I need John.

He catches my eyes and briefly stares deeply into them, centering me…at least for a moment.  “Soon, Sherlock.  Soon,” and then he softly mouths ‘love’. 

I take a deep, fortifying breath.  Soon John will tell Katie and then I will not have to endure this insufferable separation from my lover/boyfriend/date.  (That does not even include roommate/friend/doctor/ My Little Soldier/partner and the myriad of other titles which I attach to him. I am frustrated, there are too many labels!  Why cannot there be just one all-encompassing title for him, like…Oh!  I know!  ‘John’.  Just ‘John’ will do.  It is the only word that can even begin to describe all that he is to me.   My ‘John’.  Perfect!)

We walk into the hall and he introduces me to more people than I care to ever encounter again in my life.  ‘So good to see you again, Bob…How are you, Iwan?  How’s business?….Carol!  Haven’t you grown up to be quite the young lady!…  This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes’.  (Friend?  Friend?!  I have been demoted!  Let us see how you would like to be introduced as ‘John, my housekeeper’.  I think you would not take too kindly to it.)  And with each greeting he places a hand on their arm, giving them a warm smile I thought he reserved only for me.  Take those smiles back, John, they belong to me! 

I endure days of mindless prattle whilst we find our seats and sit down.  John chats with our table mates as we wait for our food, laughing, smiling, failing to push a hand off as the woman next to him touches him, practically salivating over him. I understand the sentiment, but he is mine.  I glare at her. 

Directing myself to her, I say, “Did you know that Dr. Watson recently travelled to West Africa to treat Ebola patients?  He has a very compassionate heart.  And he said there is only a 5% chance he contracted it himself.  Is that not amazing?  And your name is…?”

As soon I uttered the word ‘ebola’, the woman’s hand curled back to her lap, a horrified look arising on her face.  I hardly made it through my whole lie before she was suddenly engaged elsewhere.  She won’t be bothering _John_ again!  I laugh to myself as I watch her move to another table.

John glares at me.  I tip my head to him, ‘you are welcome’.

I look around the room, ignoring the chatter, every so often seeing out of the corner of my eye that John is trying to engage me in the conversation, but nothing captures my attention until I hear…’Murder’.  Did someone say ‘murder’?!  Now _this_ should be interesting!  I am aglow, I am sure, with the prospect of a scintillating case to solve.  It has been too long.

I mentally don my deerstalker and inquire to no one in particular as to the means of death.  “Poison?  Smothering?  Mad hound, perhaps?!”

John is the one to answer.  “No, Sherlock, she said she could murder a good _martini_ right now.”

Oh.  Dull. 

I tune them out again.

My fingers are tapping on the table.  I am bored.  I need John.  He sits only a foot away from me, but for as much good as it does me he might as well be back at home.  Home.  Where we can kiss and talk and cuddle without simple-minded fools bothering us.

I spy Katie across the room helping the bride keep her train out of harm’s way as they make their way to the bridal table.

John!  John!  There she is! Go to her now so I do not have to dry up into a useless pile of flesh whilst I wait for you to tell her.  I need to _touch_ you, John!

I nudge his knee and when he looks at me, I nod my head over to where I see her.  “There is Katie, John.  Is there not something you need to tell her?”

“She’s busy, Sherlock.  Let me give her a little time to settle in and then I’ll go talk to her, ok?”

My fingers tap harder on the table.  No, it is _not_ ‘ok’.  I miss you, John.  You are right here and I cannot even touch you.  I cannot fold my fingers into yours, letting you shield me from all these, these, _people_  who talk and laugh about things that do not matter.  If only I could touch you I would be still and calm and it would make this unbearable evening bearable.  It would make it wonderful and complete. 

He lifts his eyebrows at me.  “ _Ok_?” is the word he says.  “ _Sherlock…”_  is the warning I hear in his voice.

The expression on his face reveals both anger and worry; he knows my patience is practically non-existent at this point.  And we both know what happens when I run out of patience.  The world will not be safe from my scathing tongue and he will be angry with me and embarrassed to be seen with me and then he will leave me for his other lover(s?).  And then I will be all alone without him.

My lips press tightly together.  I must be quiet if I want to keep John.  But still I am wounded by his treatment of me, warning me to _behave_.  I am an adult, John.  I roll my eyes, lifting my chin away from him. 

I hear John scoot his chair back. Wait!  Where are you going?!  Do not leave me here alone.

“Will you excuse us, please,” he says to the collective table.  “I forgot my wedding gift in the car.”  He turns his attention to me. “Sherlock, do you want to come with me?  I forget which is our rental car and I know you’ll remember.”

Rental car?  What is he talking about?  We did not drive, we took the train.

 “We did not…” 

John interrupts me.  “You’re right, we did not write the number plate down.”

With that he walks away.  His military stride is more pronounced than usual; he is angry.  What have _I_ done?

When he finds a semi-private area for us in the hallway, he whips around, his eyes blazing.

“ _What_ is going on?!  Ever since we arrived you’ve been scowling and being rude to everyone I talk to.  What’s going on Sherlock?”

How dare he talk to me like that!  _I_ am not the one touching people and telling them with my eyes that I love them and laughing with them like a flirtatious little school girl.  I am not the one forgetting _me._   Refusing to tell my daughter I am in love.  Why is he hiding me from her?  The only conclusion I can come to is that he does not love me, it has been an act.  It is unbelievable what a man will do for cheap rent. 

“You are clearly scouting for a new partner, John.  I cannot abide being near you whilst you do so; you will just have to do it on your own.  I can make my own way back to the train station and go home.  You obviously do not need me here.  Goodbye.”

He is so stunned he cannot even gather the wherewithal to make his ‘What the _fuck’_ face; he has been caught in the act and is amazed at how accurately I have deduced his motives.  Why he is amazed, I most assuredly do not know, after all, he knows my methods.

He grabs my arm as I turn to walk away.  When I stare down at his hand, he releases it.

“Where is this coming from, Sherlock?  Huh?   Why are you so _fucking_ afraid I am going to leave and not come back?  Or, bloody Christ, run off with a lover?!”

His chest heaves, he is pointing his finger in my face; he is angrier than I have seen him in a long time. 

“If you’re so goddamn worried about me leaving you, then why don’t you just marry me!  Then I’ll be tied to you forever.  Ha!  We’ll see how you like _that_ one!”

I stare at him uncomprehendingly.  What did he say?

I blink. 

I blink again.

My mouth flops open.  When no sound comes out, I slam it shut.

I open it again.

“You want me to…marry you?”

“If it’s the only way to get you to shut up and to realise there’s no way, no _bloody_ way I’m going to leave you, whether with anyone else or alone, then yeah, I guess so.”

He suddenly relaxes, everything about him softening.  Everything that is true and right and loving.  Everything that is John.

As I look at him, the smile in his eyes, the gentle curve on his mouth, his loose stance, I know that his question was genuine.

“Do I have to answer you right now?  I have never given such an act contemplation; I need to think about this.”

“Yes, of course, you can.  Kind of comes as a surprise to me, too, that I said that, but it feels right, Sherlock.  You are the love of my life and there’s no one, _no_ one I would rather be with.”

Looking down at him a smile slowly comes to my lips.  Marry John.  Definitely something worthy of consideration.

“Idiot,” I breathe.

“I love you, too,” he says, as he reaches up to meet my lips that are just starting to tilt toward him.

“Who do you love, ‘too’, Dad?”

John’s quickly backs away from me, dropping his arm that was reaching for my waist.

 Katie walks through the doorway toward us.

John throws his Sherlock-less arms around her, “Hi, honey!  God I’ve missed you!  You look beautiful!  It must have been a lovely wedding.”  He beams at her with fatherly pride.

She is not going to allow herself to be distracted.

 “It’s good to see you, too.  Who were you talking to?  Whoever you said it to, they can’t have been that quick to get away already.”  She looks up and down the hallway, which remarkably, for a party this size, is empty save for the three of us. 

“Uh, I was talking to you.”  John is an abominable liar; he really should leave such matters in more skilled hands.  Mine.

“No, Dad.  I didn’t say ‘I love you’, and you said ‘too’.  Besides, you hadn’t even seen me yet.”  She looks confused.

Having lost his ability to speak the English language, he stutters.  “Uh, I was, uh, saying it to your Uncle Sherlock.”  He says this quietly, hoping to lessen the impact.

“Uncle Sherlock?  You’re _in love_ with Uncle Sherlock?” 

She is clearly stunned.  I cannot blame her; I vividly recall my own reaction, ‘O.O’, when _I_ found out.  It seems no one believes John Watson can be in love with me.  Not even me. 

Katie stares at John as he blushes.  She looks back and forth at us as the news sinks in.  A visible breath of air leaving her, she collects herself, and for the first time she acknowledges my presence.

“It’s good to see you Uncle Sherlock!  A bit of a surprise, this, but you know I love you.” 

“It is always a pleasure to see you, too, though not often enough, if I may say.”

I wrap my arms tightly around her as she reaches for a hug.  I have always had a soft spot for Katie.  Whether it is because of her youthful exuberance or that she is a part of John, I do not know.  It does not matter, for when I am around the two of them I always feel as if a part of their small family, more so than with my own. 

Pulling away, her body tall and lithe, her face nearly reaches mine as she asks, “Will I be calling you ‘Dad’ now, too?”  The impish grin on her face says she might even find the prospect fun.

I am saved the uncertainty of the answer when John speaks again.

“I’m sorry honey.  I was trying to tell you about us the other day on the phone, but I, well, you got pulled away.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, Dad.  I’m happy for you, really.  You’ve been alone a long time and you deserve to be with someone special.  I’m a little surprised it’s Uncle Sherlock, but honestly, I know you’ve been great friends since even before I was born, and the most important thing is that you are happy.  So how long have you been together?  I mean, has it been a long time?  Because I never noticed anything, I thought you just liked hanging out. ”

John licks his lips nervously, but he answers her question of how long we have been a couple, more or less.  More like less.  Skipping the ‘insignificant’ fact that he’s been in love with me for years.

“I know this sounds silly coming from someone my age, but it just kind of…happened.  After you left the cottage a few weeks ago, Sherlock and I started talking about getting older and what things we hadn’t done in life that we regretted not having done, and your Uncle Sherlock said he regretted never having kissed me…”

I glare at John.  “I knew somehow I would be to blame.  As I recall, I was not the one to initiate the kiss, _you_  were the one who nearly rendered me unconscious with your…”

“Uh, too much information, Sherlock!  And yes, I kissed _you_.  I get it.  I’m not blaming you.  I’m just saying that if you hadn’t brought it up, and I’m _very_ glad you did, none of this, us, would have happened.”

He turns his attention back to Katie.  "I wasn’t trying to hide it from you, but this is still new to me.  And though he and I have known each other for years, I still need to get used to us being a couple.  I know it’s a shock to you, but I really do hope you can accept it.  It’s not the usual thing for your dad to suddenly be in a relationship with a man.” 

“Like I said, dad, I’m just surprised; I never knew you were gay.  And besides, I would have been surprised were it _anyone_.  If you’ve ever been on dates you kept it well hidden from me.”

“I’m not gay,” John starts to bluster, then gives up.  “All I know is Sherlock makes me happy. Very happy.”  He pauses to reflect.  “And angry.  Come to think of it, he’s annoying as all get out, but I can’t imagine life without him.”

The look John gives me is filled with such adoration, my lips part wistfully.  I know what it is he is feeling.

“Geez, guys, go on and kiss!”

We both look at Katie.  With an expression on her face that says ‘ _Well…get on with it!_ ’, she seems to have quickly adapted to the fact her father and ‘Uncle’ Sherlock are now a couple.

With no more reluctance on our parts, we oblige her.

* * *

 

I flop onto the bed beside John.  The party is over and we are back in our hotel room, just me and him, the way it should be. I am exhausted; a rarity for me, but interacting with people in a social environment is far harder than any case I have ever been involved with.  I can barely move, so I think.  Think about John.  Think about him asking me to marry him.

Think about kissing his back.

“John?”

“Yes, love?”

 “You said you did not want me promise to not kiss your back again.  I have been thinking about this and if you want me to keep doing it you must enjoy it.  Would that be a correct assumption?”

“Uhm…”  John squirms. 

Why did he squirm?  Maybe he did not like it after all.  Maybe my tongue on him repulsed him and there was nothing more he wanted to do than jump out of bed and get as far away as possible. Quickly.  If that is the case, then why did he let me do it?  And if he did not like it, then why did he not grumble as he always does when he I ask him to do something that is obviously distasteful to him? 

As I ponder this conundrum, John continues his thought. (If one considers ‘uhm’ a thought!  Articulation is seldom John’s strength.) 

“…yes, I did.  Very much.”  He squirms again.

“Why are you squirming, John?  If you liked it so much, why does the memory of it make you act as if a bug is crawling up you?”

“Uhm….”

There he goes with the ‘uhm’ again.  Out with it, John!

“Because it felt _too_ good.”  He says this as if afraid to admit a deep secret.

“ _Too_ good?  How can it feel _too_ good, it is just skin, John.  Cells and nerve endings with a microscopic layer of dirt, sweat, and bacteria.”

“Thank you so much for that image, Sherlock.”  I can almost hear his eyes roll. 

He moves toward me and resting his lips on me just above my clavicle, he remains motionless. 

I wait for him to do something. 

I wait.

I wait and still he does not move.  Why does he not move?  Why do I press against him, growing impatient?  Why does my body start to yearn for him, start to beg him to do something?  Anything?

John!   Do something!

He pulls away. 

That is _not_ what I meant by ‘something’. 

“Why did you get so antsy, Sherlock?”

“I did not get ‘antsy’.  I do not get ‘antsy’.

“Yes, you do and yes you did.”

He knows me far too well.  Damn him!  My hand flies to my mouth; I am mortified by the expletive which pops to mind, even if no one heard. This is what John Watson does to me.  He scrambles my brainwaves, causing me to do and say things I do not normally do or say.  It is intoxicating.

“If you must know, I did experience an exceptional amount of stimulation which caused me to become agitated.”

“Did it feel good?”

“You know it did.”

“Would you say it felt ‘too’ good?”

So good that it caused me to want to beg for more? To, in my delight and anticipation, squirm, and…ahhh.  I understand.

“Uhm, yes.”  Drat!  Now he has _me_ doing it, too! Damn, him!  (Again?!  I must cease this common manner of speech, immediately.  Before you know it I will be talking about beer and football.  I shudder in horror at the thought.)

“So why did you ask?”  He inquires.

“Ask what?”  I no longer have any idea what started this discussion.

“Why did you ask if I enjoyed your kisses on my back?”

Oh, that.  Oh!

“Because I, well, I thought if it was a useful experience for you then perhaps I should experience it as well.” 

“You would like me to kiss your back?”

I am not quite sure what I am getting myself into, but if it is good enough for John, it may be relatively so for me.  And since it is clearly not life-threatening, then it would not hurt for me to know what it was I put John through.  I have little doubt it will not be nearly as interesting on the receiving end as it was for me to do. 

“Yes.  Yes, I would.  If it would not be too much trouble for you.”  I am very sincere in this statement; I have no desire to put John through, what could be to him, minor torture, but my curiosity is piqued.

“It would be no trouble at all, love.” 

I label this tone Smirky Boy.  Maybe it is painful and he wants to retaliate for some grievance I have caused him that I have already deleted.  No, that cannot be it.  He said he enjoyed it.  We shall see if I do as well.

I lay on the edge of the bed, facing away from him.  He lifts my shirt toward my head, pulls my pyjama bottoms down a modest amount, leaving a hand-wide space; my lower back has lost some of its protection.  It is not cold but it has lost its warm cocoon.

Not for long.

I hear the bedding rustle as he moves into position.  His hands grasp my hips and then….

“AAAHHHHHHH!” 

A very undignified scream escapes my lips and before I know it I find myself sprawled on the floor, having involuntarily taken flight from the powerful surge of electricity which attacked me.

By the time I am once again upright, John has propped himself up on his elbow, with a smile on his face that says he is entirely too pleased with himself. 

“WHAT did you just do?!”

He cocks his eyebrow, the smirk still on his face, “I kissed your back.”

“That was your tongue?!”

I look around where he lies; I see no live wires dangling about.  Perhaps he has already hidden it under the covers.

“ _Yes,_ my tongue.  What do you think I did?  Do you think whilst you were lying there I grabbed the light cord, stripped it, and touched it to your back?  All in the space of ten seconds?”

It _would_  be a viable explanation. I look suspiciously at the lamp.  It is still alight; it cannot be the cause of the voltage.

He pats the bed in front of him.

“Come here.  Let’s try that again.  And this time, try not to fall off the bed.  I don’t want to be mending any broken bones.”

I eye him warily, wondering if I can trust him.

He pats the bed again. 

“I won’t hurt you, Sherlock, it’s the last thing I want to do; I love you. So now that you know what’s coming, you can prepare yourself and maybe find out just why I like it so much.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, my spine rigid.  Should I suddenly hurl myself away again from his demon tongue, at least I will land on my feet.

I tense as he again creates an opening in my bed clothes for the torment to come.

His hand is warm on me as he rubs my skin, firmly enough to keep from tickling me, but soft enough to soothe. 

“Relax, sweetheart.  This won’t hurt, I promise.” His voice is almost as soothing as his hand.  His other hand joins the first and he is rubbing, rubbing.  His thumbs press circles into my muscles.

"Ahhhhhh."

This time it is not a scream.  I start to sway lightly in rhythm with his hands.  If a haze were not blanketing my mind, I might wonder if he is luring me into a false sense of security.  But I cannot think deeply enough to come to a conclusion.

His hands smooth along me.  Pressing.  Rubbing.  Pressing.  Rubbing.

When they move towards my waist, between them I feel something warm and moist touch at the base of my spine, as if he has wet his thumb.

My brain hums.  I sway minutely, just enough to match his rhythm.

His moist thumb still lightly touching me, his lips wrap around it, joining it on my skin.

My brain suddenly registers what is going on.  It is Not.  His.  Thumb.

Once again I feel the live wire connecting to my body.  As I tense and start to flee, John grabs my hips with his hands, their assertiveness compelling me to stay.

I stay.  I must trust John.  Never before has he willingly hurt me. 

He starts rubbing me again, calming me.

“Shhh, it’s alright, love.  Shhhh, Beloved.”

Beloved.  I like that one, it is new.  You are _my_ beloved, John. 

I sag slightly, relaxing, feeling warm and comfortable and safe in the capable hands of the man who somehow, miraculously, showed me that I do indeed have heart.

When his mouth meets my back, this time I am ready, open to wherever it takes me.  His hands still secure on my hips, his thumbs stroke me.  His lips and tongue move on me, circling, laving, pressing.  My nerve endings teem with pleasure; I feel each one trying to burst forth from me, their ecstasy too great to willingly be constrained by my flesh.

John.  John.  John.  My mind hums. My chest hums.  I sag further and John guides me to lie down on the bed, tapping lightly at my leg to indicate I should bring them up onto the bed with the rest of me.  I am so helplessly languid I feel as if I am one of the wet noodles John fed us for dinner the other night, spineless, lying limply in whatever position I fall into without giving thought to dignity.

I feel a hand reach under the front of my shirt to lie flat on my belly.  Another is roaming slowly, slowly along the entirety of my back.  And the lips and tongue that have commandeered my existence?  They continue to enslave me as they kiss me, suck me, and trail along the small of my back. 

“John?”

I am not sure this is such a good idea to try to talk to him right now.  The words I can barely see in my head are floating around, reluctant to attach to each other in a coherent structure.  Even more alarmingly, I realise it means John’s mouth has to leave me to answer.

“Yes, love?” 

He does not torture me long, for as soon as the words are out of his mouth, I feel lips on me again.  Where they belong.

Even though some would say that in this moment I am not in my right mind and should not be making declarations I may regret when I am able once again to think clearly, I know they would be wrong, for this comes from my heart, not from my mind.

“I want to marry you.”

John stops what he is doing and sits up.  I roll onto my back to see what he is doing. 

I would be bereft at the loss of his lips from my back were it not for the fact that he is reaching for my face, gently cupping it in his hands.  Were it not for the moisture that is welling up in his eyes that warms my skin as it falls.  Were it not that his lips are now on mine, giving me everything I need.

Him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I post this, I am supposed to be in Florida at a Paul McCartney concert and tomorrow I was to finally meet my awesome Beta and BFF, Burning_Up_A_Sun. Disappointment is not a strong enough word. But I am comforted by my writing family (*blows kisses*) and our boys. And in October, I will be zooming South for the re-scheduled concert. Be well, Sir Paul! (somehow I can't help but think he would approve of my borrowing his song titles to use as story titles, even if it is for slash.)


	9. The pulse of my existance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The relationship between Sherlock and John reaches a crisis point. Ohhh, but making up is so sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love and gratitude to Burning_Up_A_Sun for her keen eye and insights. There is no better friend or beta! (Have you read her Adult Education series, yet? Funny, sweet, hot, and provocative. An excellent read!)
> 
> And many thanks to Thorntonsheart for allowing me to pick her Brit brain. You would also be depriving yourself if you don't go read her work, luscious!

As is my daily ritual, I wake up hours before John, nestling my face into his neck.  He knows I do this.  I tell him I use the time to think; I do not tell him it is time to think about him.  He has always admired me for my extraordinary intellectual prowess (who would not) and were he to discover my sentiment is getting the better of me, I fear I would lose his esteem. 

We are still in London; delight fills me as I anticipate the day.  I would clap my hands in glee, but I do not want to wake John.  Whilst he does not need beauty sleep as he is already a fine specimen of that well-worn phrase ‘aging gracefully’, I cannot say the same for his temperament.  There is a direct correlation between the number of hours he sleeps and the number of times he gets angry at me during the day.  What I have ever done to merit such vitriol directed my way, I do not know; the care I take in attending to his endless number of wants and needs is incomparable.

He stirs.  My beloved is awakening.  (See how I threw ‘beloved’ in there? I bet you did not notice, as it was so cleverly placed.)

I stretch into him and nestle my leg between his.  His hand, from where it lays on my back, reaches up to play with my hair, as if in reflex.  He kisses the top of my head. 

“Morning, love.”  His voice is still rough from sleep.

I tilt my head to kiss his chin, then reaching up further I put my mouth on his.   I love you John, I love you I love you I Iove you.

“Morning breath, Sherlock,” he mumbles against my lips.  I ignore him, what is a little bacterium between lovers?  It is not as if we do not share the same air on a daily basis. 

Maybe he means mine!  I jerk back; I do not want him to find me unpalatable.

His eyes fly open.  “Hey!  It can’t be that bad, I brushed right before we went to bed.”

“I thought you were talking about mine.  No, you are fine.  You are quite perfect, in fact.  In every way.”

As I lean back in to him, he leans away from me.  His eyes narrow at me.

“‘Perfect’?  What happened to ‘idiot, ‘as always you see but do not observe’, and the dozens, if not hundreds of other ways you’ve managed to so charmingly point out my inadequacies over the years?  You aren’t going to offer to dust again, are you?  And by the way, even if you do I don’t care either way since we’re not at home.”

I adopt an exaggerated pout similar to what Katie uses even to this day to get what she wants.  And what I want is John.  After all he is _mine_ now.  He is my betrothed.  My husband-to-be. 

My best friend.  The love of my life… 

Drat!  Bugger! 

 _Sentiment_!! 

Before I know it I will be blowing kisses and calling him ‘baby’.  I smell the smoke from my brain as it incinerates into a charred mass.  Soon there will nothing left; I will be known as The World’s Dullest Detective. 

This will not do.

John watches my face as the pout transforms into a cloudy scowl and then into an air of disinterest.  I throw my legs off the bed, marching to the loo.  I must get myself under control!  I mentally flip my (annoying, cloying, soppy) emotional thermostat from ‘I l-o-o-o-ove John’, to a perfunctory,’ I love John’; no whining involved.  I come back into the room, my sensibilities righted.  I feel much better now.

John is standing by the bed, pulling a trouser leg on.  My eyes shift back and forth between him and the bed, and back again. 

“What are you doing, John?”

“I’m getting dressed.  Isn’t that _obvious_ ?”

“Yes, it is.  But why?  We always lie together in the morning, and…well, cuddle, for want of a more elegant word.”

“ _Why_?”  He glares at me.  (I did not allow him enough sleep.  Two hours short equals three outbursts.  I do hope he gets them out of the way so I can enjoy my day.)

He pulls the second leg on and hitches the trousers up to his waist.  I do not like this.  I have not even started to get ready.  He is not planning on leaving without me, is he? 

“ _Why_ , Sherlock?”  His tone sharpens, a figurative finger pointing at me.

Yes, John, ‘why’.  I believe that was my question, and I heard you the first time.

“Because you need to make up your mind what it is you want.  I know being in a relationship is new to you, but I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the whole hot and cold behavior thing.  First you want me, but you’re scared I’m going to leave you.  Then you want me and you’re telling me to move out, because you bloody well can’t _think._  And _then_ , you’re accusing me of having a lover.  But then, no, you say you want to marry me.  Now you’re pulling back again.  Jesus.”

He tucks in his shirt and cinches his belt. 

I want to be that belt, to hug him like I will not let go.  Like _he_ will not go.

He is quiet whilst he puts on his shoes and ties them.  When he is finished he stands in front of me and puts his hand on my face.  His eyes are sad like they were when he decided to put their cat Guinevere down.  The thought flits through my mind that he wants to put me down, too, but he would never be so cruel.

What he is about to say is worse than any needle stuck into my arm that will send me into a final sleep.

“I love you, Sherlock, you are a part of me.  But I need to know you’re in this relationship with me, every day, every minute.  I know it has to be as scary as hell to feel things you’ve never felt, and don’t lie to me, I know you do.  But being in a relationship that will last is not about being there just when it feels good or when it’s easy; it’s about making the choice to be fully involved even when you’re angry.  Or when you’re scared. 

“I want to be your husband and I want you to be mine.  And whether or not that happens is up to you.  You need to decide which it’s going to be.  Scared and with me, physically _and_ emotionally, or…” he draws a long breath of air into his nose.  “Or not at all.

“Do you understand what it is I’m saying?”  His thumb strokes my cheek and I bow my head.

It is almost as if he is saying goodbye.  I swallow but I still cannot speak, my throat is constricted.  So I nod.  I understand, John.  You want to know that I love you _all_ the time, not just when it is convenient for me.

John walks over to pick up his jacket from where he threw it over the chair last night, and puts it on, one arm and then the other.  With every limb he covers, it feels as if he is moving farther and farther away from me.    

“I know we were going to spend the day together, but I think I’ll go see Katie by myself and then maybe drop by the clinic to say hello to some co-workers I haven’t seen in a while.  I hope… I hope you’re here when I get back this evening.”

I hear the implication in what he has not said.

“And if I am not?”

He looks away, unable to meet my eyes.

“Well, then, I guess that will mean you’ve decided it’s too much trouble to be in a relationship with me.”

He clears his throat and checks for his wallet, still avoiding my eyes.

I find it hard to breathe, but not in a good way; not in the ‘this-is-so-wonderful-I-think-I am-about-to-expire-because-I-cannot-breathe’ way. 

“May I…may I kiss you before you leave?”

I am distressed that I feel the need to ask.  In the last few weeks there has been an unspoken agreement that I may kiss him whenever the need arises.  And the need arises often.  Never do I question the fact that I might not be welcome.

Not until now.

He looks straight at me, giving me a small smile that fails to reach his eyes.  I am not sure that means ‘yes’, but as he does not move away when I take the three steps to reach him, I touch my lips to his.  I leave them there, waiting for a response.  His lips remain motionless beneath mine (Kiss, me John. _Please,_ John.  But he does not.). I wrap my arms around him, pulling him to me.  Almost as if against his will, his arms reach around me and hug me, one tight squeeze.  His head lays against me just long enough that I think perhaps he has changed his mind, that I will not be required to make a ‘decision’.  But I am wrong.

His arms drop to his sides and clears his throat, looking at the floor again.  

As he moves toward the door he takes one last look at me, says a soft “I love you,” and walks out, closing the door behind him.

Leaving me standing here.  Alone.

I bite my lip, looking at the closed door.  I will not cry; Sherlock Holmes does _not_ cry.

* * *

 

I pace the room.  Trying to deduce where I went wrong, why he left.

Ha!  I understand!  He is teaching me another lesson.  Exactly what it is, I am not sure. He will be back soon, I know it. When I told him to move out, he left, but not for long.   My eyes flick to my watch; he should be back any minute now and then he will tell me what I have learned. 

I wait.

He has been gone for 5 minutes and 16 seconds.  I look at the door.  No John.  

Twelve minutes and 38 seconds.   No John.  

I must be patient.  Last time he left for 28 minutes and 23 seconds.  I can bear his absence that long, I am sure of it….I am not sure.

I look at my watch.  He has been gone 29 minutes and 15 seconds.  The door does not move.

Where is he?  Why has he not yet returned?

One hour, sixteen minutes and 48 seconds…

No John.

* * *

 

I take a long shower, scrubbing every part of my body thrice.  I linger at the closet, deciding which suit to wear: the charcoal one I wore to the reception or the deep blue one that John says brings out my eyes (this seems to be important to him)?  I dress with an unusual amount of deliberation, stretching out each second giving John time to come back to me. 

He does not.

Three hours, 8 minutes, and 56 seconds.

My lip hurts from biting on it.  Even if he does not care about me, he should care about my lip.  (Look, John!  My lip is bleeding!  Please, come back…please.)

Four hours, 3 minutes and 6 and a half seconds.

I can no longer bear the silence of the room, the John-less space that is closing in on me. 

I leave the room and head down to the lobby, ignoring the ‘Good day, Mr. Holmes’ the concierge offers as I pass by him.  I scan every place visible to me, watching for a short (my apologies, John, but it _is_ true), grey-haired man who has never lost his chafing when he walks.  My heart sinks as fail to see the man I promised to marry.  (How my heart can do this, I do not understand; there are other vital organs that should hold it in place.  John, see what you have done to me?  You have rearranged my internal organs.)

Soon I stand on the pavement outside the hotel, breathing in the London air, waiting for it to clear my head.  Waiting for it to make me right.  I watch the busy traffic, look up at the concrete and steel buildings framed by a cloudy sky.  It all feels and smells so familiar, so why does it not comfort me?  Why does the city, _my_ city, that has always been the pulse of my existence, not take me in its arms and make me feel _alive_ as it has never failed to do?

I look up and down the street, not knowing what to do, not knowing where to go. 

I start walking.  To where, for once in my life, I do not know. 

For once in my life, it does not matter.

* * *

 

Many hours later I slide the hotel key card into the slot, unlocking the door; I have been gone all day.  Fear weighs me down as if a 25 stone corpse has fallen upon me and I am struggling to crawl out from beneath it.  What if John returned first and, not seeing me, left, thinking I do not care?  Thinking I do not want him.  Thinking he is not worth the ‘trouble’ of a relationship.

He would be wrong, so wrong.

I open the door and see him sitting in a chair.  Just sitting, doing nothing but staring sightlessly at the blank screen of the telly.  His elbow leaning on the armrest, his head is propped up by his thumb and forefinger as he does when he is deep in thought.  I realise no quick comment comes to mind as I think ‘deep in thought’; I have lost my desire to disparage him. 

He does not seem to have heard me, for he does not look up.  I study him.  He looks older (was it only this morning?) and the thought occurs that it is due to me.  I have caused him to worry and wonder and to age more in 10 hours than he has in ten years.  I am ashamed; who am I to cause pain to this good, kind man who would never, ever hurt me.  Who has always had only kind words for me (excluding ‘idiot’, ‘dim-witted’ and various other pejoratives which were more than likely well-deserved).

“John.”  My voice sounds out of place in the quiet room.

He looks up at me and his hand drops to the armrest.   I cannot read the look on his face, but it looks too much like the last time I saw it and I refuse to believe he has made a ‘decision’ on his own that does not include me in his future. Sad.  Weary.

I willfully push my fear aside and proceed with what I have to say.

“John, I’m sor….”

“No.”

‘No’, what?  I am confused.  Does he not want me here?  He told me to ‘decide’, and it seemed clear to me he hoped me to be here this evening. 

He shakes his head and his voice drops low enough I can barely hear him from across the room.

“No, Sherlock, nope.  Do _not_ apologise.  You have nothing to apologise for.”

“But, I…”

“But you ‘what’?  You stumbled?  You tried to learn in the last few weeks what most of us take a lifetime to learn, if ever? I expected too much from you.”  He shakes his head in admonishment.  Admonishment at himself.  “You’ve never been in a relationship and I thought you could waltz in, handle yourself perfectly like you’ve done it a million times before?  I’m sorry, love, that was wrong of me.  Will you please forgive me?”

“What _are_ you talking about, John?  I know you thought I was trying to be funny or trying to get something from you when I said this morning that you are ‘perfect’, but I was not.  I meant it.  _I_ am the one who needs to apologize.”

John gets up and walks toward me, his eyes now lighting up with all the love I was afraid I would never see again. 

I drop to the floor the bag I am holding and open my arms.  There is nothing, no one, I need to hold right now more than I need to hold John.

“Christ, I missed you,” he breathes against my lips, unbuttoning my coat and tucking his arms inside. 

As I kiss him, there is no need to wait for a response; this time he needs me as much as I do him.  Holding his body tight to mine, it is as if I cannot get close enough; I need to be closer, closer.  I hold his face in my hands and coax his tongue into my mouth.  Our lips move against each other’s in a dance of love and longing, of promises for what is to come. (When did _I_ become so poetic?!  The things this man does to me!)  My hand moves to cup John’s nape, and his head falls back as I pucker small kisses along his jawline, down his neck, down to the warm, soft skin just inside his collar; each one telling him how much I have missed him.  The warm puffs of air that reach my ear tell me he has missed me, too.  Retracing my path with the tip of my tongue, I take my time, my mouth savoring him, memorizing every infinitesimal patch of skin I touch.  When I reach his ear, I pause, whispering, “I love you, John; do not ever doubt that.”

John sags against me, his weight light enough I know he has heard my words, but not heavy enough I am concerned for his health.

“I know, love, I know.”  His voice trembles.  (Hmmm, I may be getting better at kissing, but then, I have anexcellent teacher.)

He stands back from me.  I somehow know the smile I give him is as warm and loving as any he has bestowed on me. 

Taking a couple of deep breaths to re-oxygenate himself, John shakes his head as if trying to release himself from a daze.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“Where the _hell_ did you learn to kiss like that?  That was amazing!” 

I chuckle.  “ _You_ , John.”

“Oh, yea, right!  Right proud of myself about now, ” he laughs with me.  Flippity flip.  There is no sweeter sound.

I throw my coat on the table, and pick up the bag I dropped, setting it up on the table, too.

“So what did you buy, then?”  John asks, even though he can see the blooms sticking out of the bag.

I slap my hands together, a grin on my face.  “I bought you presents, John!”

 “For _me_ ?”  He asks, pleased.

“Yes, for you.”  I pull the bouquet of flowers out of the bag with a flourish, and hand them to him.  He closes his eyes, his lips tightening as he breathes in their fragrance.  He is moved. 

“These are beautiful, Sherlock.   Thank you, sweetheart.”

I have more.

Reaching into the bag, with another flourish I pull out a small gift-wrapped box.

“I know you do not entirely approve of these, but I also remember you used to love a good one, before Katie came along.”

The look he gives me is inquisitive. 

Pulling the bow off and ripping the paper away, he exposes a small cigar box.  He throws his head back and laughs. 

“Sherlock, you bugger!”

Opening the box, he smells the cigar, a wide smile on his face. “Christ, it’s been ages!  You never forget anything, do you!”

I cock an eyebrow.  Really, John?  I only delete the unimportant things, and nothing about you is unimportant.  Nothing ever has been.

“All this time you’ve taken the piss about me being a romantic, and it seems I’m not the only one.  You never fail to amaze me.”  His eyes soften and he kisses me, his lips tender against mine, and I feel _my_ knees sag.  I still have so much to learn about kissing; I shall enjoy the instruction.  With immense pleasure. 

“So.  Did you buy anything for yourself or am I the only one to reap this embarrassment of riches?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

“What did you buy?”  John looks into the bag, then back at me, puzzled.  “It’s empty.  What did you get?”

I watch his eyes drop to the small jewel box that appears in my hand as I bring it out of my pocket; I lower myself to one knee.  (I admit to getting the inspiration whilst joining him as he watches the soaps he seems to enjoy.  Drivel.)  I open the box to show him the two platinum bands inside.

He stands there for several moments, his lips parted, a puzzled expression still on his face.  Have I broken him?

 “But Sherlock, we’re already engaged.”

“Yes, I know, but I thought it might help if you have tangible proof of my promise, to paraphrase your words, ‘decide to stay even when it is not easy’.  Even if I get scared.

“John Hamish Watson, will you do me the honour of being my husband?”

“Well, that certainly puts my proposal to shame, doesn’t it.  At least _you_ weren’t shouting.”  He puts his hand on my shoulder and lowers himself to his knees in front of me. 

“Yes, love, I will marry you.  Though to be truthful, I think I’m pretty much already married to you.  At least here.”  He picks up my empty hand and with his, holds it to his chest.

I take a deep breath and clear my throat.  Now what was I doing?  Oh, yes. 

I pull his ring out of the box and hand it to him.  It is not an engagement ring, but I want him to read the inscription.

“Read the inside of the band, John.”

He holds the ring up close to him and squints.  “I’m sorry, honey, I can’t read it.”

I take it back from him, perching it between my fingers.  “It says ‘Every minute of every day’.  That is how often I love you, John, and promise to for as long as I am alive.”

He searches my eyes and I know he will find in them everything he needs to see.

* * *

 

We have come to bed early.  It is at my suggestion after complaining we did not get our usual morning cuddle time. 

“And whose fault is that?  Hmm?”  John is propped on his elbow looking down at me.  I have no idea why he is amused; he finds humour in the oddest things.

“Yours, John.  I was on my way back to bed and you were getting dressed ….”

I am silenced with a kiss. I would be quite happy never to talk again if it means my lips are always occupied by John’s. 

When he is done having his way with my mouth (Do not think for one moment I did not have my way with his, as well; that would be foolish of you.), he tells me to sit up.

“Why?”

“Because you gave me all those wonderful presents this evening and I want to give _you_ one.”

I am perplexed by this.  When did he have time to go shopping between the time I arrived back at the hotel and when we came to bed?  Had he left I would have noticed.  But I sit up without complaint, curious to know what he is going to give me.  Maybe it is the new microscope I have been wanting.  It would be very thoughtful of him.   

I sit up.

“Now take your shirt off.”

“But how can taking my shirt off be a present for _me_ ?  And besides, I will get cold; you know I require extra insulation.  Belstaff 365 days a year, remember.”

“You will see, no you won’t, and yes, I am well aware.”

I roll my eyes but do as he asks.  As I have said, he is persistent and I might as well comply or else I will get no rest.  My shirt is now off.  Are you happy, John?

“Now what?”  I want to demand an answer, but my heart is not in it.  I truly want to know what he has in mind and if I am too forceful he may continue hiding it from me.  But I still do not see how removing my clothing can produce a present, especially an item as bulky as a microscope.  (I hope he chose the correct one, I am very particular with my equipment.)

He still does not answer my question; instead he removes his own shirt and flings it off the side of the bed.  He smiles at the confusion on my face.

“What did you do that for?  Now you are going to get cold, too.” 

“No, I’m not.”  He lifts up the covers, nodding at the opening.  “Come on, lie back down.” 

The cool air of the room is already giving me goose bumps.  Even though I still do not understand the purpose of John’s instructions, I once again do as he asks.  Certainly I will be warmer in there even if I do not have my shirt on.  I scoot under the covers to lie against John, hoping his body heat will compensate for my chill.

As soon as my skin touches his, I cannot help but release a groan that forms deep inside me.

I feel John’s skin every day, his arms, his face, his neck, and most fortuitously, I have of late come to enjoy the particular pleasures of his back.  But this… _this._ Flesh to flesh, not mouth to flesh, has to be the most intoxicating, thrilling contact we have had thus far.  I close my eyes, letting the intensity of this new experience wash over me, feeling it invade every cell of my body.  I shiver, but I am not cold. Good Lord, John!  What have you done to me now?!  Are there no boundaries to how you will torment me?

My arm crosses over his chest; there is nothing between us.  As promised, I am surprisingly warm; I never would have surmised our clothing would be a barrier to his body heat.  His skin is smooth; I breathe in his heady scent.  I am swathed in a scintillating wrap- sheet and duvet on one side of me, and John- skin on the other. I find, to my great embarrassment my nipples, are getting firm.  His are too, but I will not tell him I know; I do not want him to be embarrassed as well.

“You alright, love?” 

His hand finds my back, smoothing up and down it.

I cannot speak.  I am spellbound by the effect his body has on me.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?”

A chuckle forms at the back of his throat and I hear it reverberate through his chest into mine. 

I finally find my voice and murmur my words against him.  Against his _skin._

“This is for me?”

“Yes.”

“This is a wonderful present, John.  Had I known about it, I would have gotten you this instead of flowers and a cigar.”

“Aahhh, but I am enjoying it every bit as much as you are.”  He wraps his other arm around my shoulder and rests his cheek atop my head. 

“I am glad; you deserve everything good.”

“I _have_ everything good.  I have you, don’t I?”

That I am ‘everything good’ is debatable, but I do not feel like arguing.  I do not think I would be able to if I wanted.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Sherlock, but what did you do today?  You seem different tonight, at peace, almost.  Given what you said when you proposed to me, something happened today.”

I consider his question.  It is a fair one.  I do not move from where I am; I think it will be easier to tell him if I do not look at him. Though I have nothing to hide, it is so uncustomary for me to speak at length of personal thoughts that have nothing to do with my work, I am uneasy.

He waits patiently until I am ready. 

“I waited quite some time for you to come back to the room; I thought you would return soon as you did when I…when I asked you to move out.  I thought you would tell me what I needed to know and then everything would be fine between us. 

“When I realized that you weren’t coming back, that it wasn’t some, not trick, but plan, to get me to come to my senses, and that you were serious in what you told me about making a decision on how to proceed, I left the hotel.” 

“I felt lost, John.”  I pause as I recall the sense of grief I felt at not connecting with my cherished home as I stood on the pavement.  “Here I was in a city in which I lived and breathed all my life, and I could not feel it.  I could not feel the pulse that I always thought kept my heart beating.”

John squeezes me, his nose nestling into my hair.  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.  I know how important London is to you.” 

I take a deep breath, what I say next will not be easy.

“That is when I knew John.  That is when I knew that the pulse inside me I thought came from the city, comes from you.  You are my life force.  I know I love you, but I did not know what that meant to me.  Today I found out.” 

Were I to hear anyone else make such declarations, I would scoff, immediately analysing their food and drink for hallucinatory additives.  But as I say the words, I know for myself there are none truer.  To my great fortune, John is not me; he does not scoff.

“Still, with that knowledge, it did not answer the question I posed to myself after you presented your…ultimatum.  I knew what I wanted my decision to be, I want to be with you, in that there is no question.  But I did not know why I, as you say, run hot and cold.  What am I scared of?   Despite my behaviour, I do not believe you would ever cheat on me; you are too honourable a man to do so.  And I am not scared to love you.”

“So then, what is it Sherlock?  Why do you have trouble settling in with me?  With us?”  There is no judgment in his tone.  He truly wants to know and is willing to let me explain myself in the fashion I need to do it.

“I visited Mycroft.”  This does not directly answer his queries, but it will lead me there.

“You did?”

I hear the mild surprise in his voice.  He knows my brother and I have never been close, but over the years we have set aside some of our petty feuds, realising we are all we have left after our parents’ deaths.

“Yes, a bit of a surprise, is it not, me looking to Mycroft for relationship advice.  But he is the person most like me who I know, so I thought he might have insights, well, particular to my sensibilities.”

I continue to be mesmerized by the body touching mine.  Truly, I wish John had introduced me to this novel approach to cuddling weeks ago!  I heave a sigh, relishing the feel of him.  As I look at the flesh in front of me I cannot help but touch a finger to one of his nipples; it hardens at the merest contact.  Fascinating.

His chest expands as he sucks in a breath.   His voice is higher than usual, probably due to not having yet exhaled.  “Uh, Sherlock?  You were saying?  Please, tell me what happened at Mycroft’s.”

I puzzle at his physical reaction, but I still have important things to say.  My finger reluctantly leaves him.

“As you are aware, he and Greg have been in a relationship for a number of years now.  Quite happily it seems, so I sought his viewpoint.  What he said was quite illuminating.”

“And what was that?”  John has finally exhaled and is speaking normally.  I shall have to touch him again when he is not watching to see if there is a correlation between my touch and the previous reaction.  I will try not to distract myself with the thought. 

“He said that in the beginning of their relationship he experienced some of the same difficulties I am having, jealousy and a fear of getting too deeply involved.  He said he came to realise it was not because he did not trust or love Greg enough, but that he did not believe that Greg could love _him_ so much; he said he did not feel worthy of Greg’s love.”

“That sanctimonious bastard who used to act as if he were God’s gift to mankind thought he wasn’t good enough for Greg?  _That_ I find difficult to believe.”

“I had the same reaction at first.  But as I thought about it, I understood, because I believe it is the same for me.  Not with Greg, of course, but with you.  I know I am not easy to love and whilst I have an unparalleled mind, that does not mean I am suitable for an intimate relationship.  And you, well, you John, deserve the very best, and I am not that. Not unless all you need was someone to solve crimes or pick locks, which I am quite certain is not accurate, at least not in your case.  You deserve someone who can love you with all the loyalty and affection that you give.”

He is silent and does not contradict me; his hold on me remains firm.  For that I am grateful; it gives me strength to continue.  Introspection is not something I am accustomed to practicing.  In fact, I did not start to become familiar with it until after John and I first kissed.  I toyed with it, trying to figure out the cause of my turmoil, but not until today did I find myself in a situation where I needed to place myself under a microscope.  I did not like what I saw, at least not as a partner to John.

I am silent too long and John prompts me to keep talking.

“And what did Mycroft have to say about this? What was it that brought you back to me?”

I watch my hand as it smooths along his abdomen and up his side, as I feel his bare skin against my palm.  As I feel how unbelievably fortunate I am to be with this man.

“He said he had to learn to trust that Greg knew who it was he wanted, and why.  If he, Mycroft, trusted Greg in everything else, why should he not trust Greg in his choice of partner?  He also said it took him time to fully believe that Greg loved him completely, but that when he did it was incomparable to anything else he had ever experienced in life.

“And he said it is the same with you and me, that I can trust you to know, even if I do not.  At least not yet.”

“And do you agree with Mycroft?”

I look up at him so I can see his face.  So I can get a clear view of the man who I have been too stubborn to see has been the heart of me a good portion of my life.

“Yes, John.  I trust you with my life.  I trust you to make good decisions.  And whilst I may have trouble believing that I am suitable for you, that I remotely deserve you, I trust you to know better than me if that is true.

“Besides, Mycroft is never wrong.”  I say this with a glint in my eye.  But whilst we both detest admitting it, we know it is true.

“Jesus, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I agree with him.  And you, my dear, _you_ agreeing with what he said…” he stops to plant a kiss on my lips.  And another.  And another.  Each successive kiss growing longer, more tender, more loving.

“… _that_ makes you a very, very smart man.”

I cannot help it. 

“As if it were in doubt.”

* * *

 

It is well past midnight and John has been asleep for more than an hour.  I sit in the chair he sat in earlier, watching him.  I have put my robe on to shield my shirtless, John-less body against the chill.

As I watch him, I know I never want to go through again what I went through today.  Whilst we are rarely apart from each other, when we are, I am able to cope, knowing I will see him again soon.   But today…  Today when I thought I might lose him forever, a darkness came over me that I resolve never again to experience. 

I know I am still scared.  Scared that I will not be sufficient for him.  Scared that I will let him down.   But I think back to when I jumped off the roof of St. Bart’s all those years ago.  When I placed my life in the hands of strangers, trusting they would catch me.  If I could trust them to catch me when I fall, surely I can trust John Watson to do so much more.  Trust him to know I am exactly what he wants and needs.  Trust that I may someday believe this to be true.

I take off my robe and reaching the bed, slide under the covers beside him. 

He rolls away from me, taking my hand to put my arm around him.  But I stop him.

“No, John.”

I lie on my back and guide him to face me, pulling his leg over mine and an arm across my chest.

“But won’t you feel trapped?”  He says sleepily, ready to put my needs before his own.  As he always does.

“Not this time, John.  This time there is nothing more I need than to be surrounded by you.  It is how it has always been, but I refused to see it.”

I am cocooned by his warmth as I fall asleep.

Feeling the beat of his heart.

Our heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you who read, kudo, and comment! It makes this writer's heart so, so happy!


	10. John and I have 'The Talk'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock wakes up, he finds his hand, uhm, THERE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, love and gratitude to my Mega Beta, Burning_Up_A_Sun. Thank God I don't have to deserve her, because I never would.

Despite the fact that when we fell asleep John was draped over me, when I awake, I rest on him, chest to back, my arm hugging him in my customary fashion.   Drowsing between sleep and wakefulness, aware there is something unusual in our arrangement, I cannot quite grasp it. 

John’s hand lies on mine.  Not unusual. 

My hand lies on him.  Not unusual.

When it comes to me, like the hound at Baskerville, I cannot bear to think of it, for it causes me no minor amount of distress.  The predicament which shakes my calm is that…. Is that…my hand…

Is on…

It is on…

Out with it Sherlock.  You have been in situations more dire many a time!

I take a deep breath.

My hand…

My hand is on…  

My hand is on John’s…

… erect penis. 

If ever I needed to use John’s words (Jesus Christ shit bugger fuck bollocks twat), this is it.  But I cannot bring myself to do so.  Compounding the error of impolite behaviour with impolite vocabulary is not the way to absolve myself of such a decadent act. 

I cannot believe I had even a subconscious intention of groping John in his sleep, yet I cannot fathom how my hand arrived at that particular destination.  But it is there, and I must deal with it.   I must.  My love (how warm it makes me feel to call John by that endearment…my love my love my love) is still asleep, his breathing is deep and even.  All I need to do is….

Was that a snore or a snort?  Bugger!  There is only one letter difference between the two, and yet it means the difference between him being asleep and me being caught red-handed.

It was a snort.

To my great horror, as he does each morning immediately upon awakening, he proceeds to scratch his scrotum.  He forms his hand into a c-shape, pushes it down to the base of his penis and…

…there it is, John.  Yes, you have something in the way.  Namely, _me_. 

It should be impossible for someone who has stopped moving to freeze, but that he does.  If I thought myself uncomfortable before, I am doubly so now, for my hand is, uhm, cupping him.

He is unaware I am awake; I play, well...’dead’, with stunning believability.  Or with more accuracy, in this case I pretend I am asleep. 

John has told me that when I am deep in sleep I snore, a quite melodious sound I am sure, given my musical talents.  I shall have to record myself someday so that if the need arises to again fake sleeping, I can produce an accurate assimilation of how I sound, but for the time being I must make an educated guess of what it sounds like when Sherlock Holmes snores. 

I must be convincing (unsurprising, I know), for he takes my hand and, with great care so as to not disturb my ‘sleep’, moves it to my hip.  Then, as fast as a 63 year-old man with a bad shoulder and aging knees is able, he shuffles to the loo.

He is in there for a worrying amount of time before I hear a muffled moan.  An attempted muffle to be more precise, as the running tap does not cover the sound as well as I am sure he would like.

What _can_ he have been doing?   

I crack open an eye as he comes back from the loo, a self-satisfied smile on his face and a gait more relaxed than when he went in.  I stretch and yawn as he rejoins me in bed.

“Good morning, John.”  I pat my mouth with my hand.  Yaw-w-wn.

He folds the covers over him when he lies down; the smile disappears.

“How long have you been awake?”

My eyes grow wide in innocence.  “Who?  Me?”

“Yes, _you.”_

I yawn again.  “I woke up as you came back into the room.”  Yawn.

I see from his expression that I do not fool him, but to call me on it means he will have to admit that he knows I touched him…there.  And for some reason he is unwilling to do that.   Just as well, it is nothing about which I want to talk.

Eying me with wariness one more time for good measure, he changes the subject when he sees I will not crack under the pressure. 

“You had your nightmare again.”

“I did?”  This time I do not feign ignorance.

“Shit, Sherlock, I’m sorry.  I should have known I shouldn’t have slept on you.  You were shouting my name, calling for me as if I you were in such anguish.” 

His eyes darken at the memory.

“I do not remember,” I shrug.  “As long as I do not, it is of no importance.”  I am chastened by the ache I see on his face. I am wrong; it may not be of importance to me, but it matters to him.

“You are right…”  I start to say.

“What?”  Incredulity widens his eyes.

“I was saying, ‘you are right’…”

“Yes!  That’s it!  I’m going to mark this one down on the calendar, the day Sherlock Holmes said I’m ‘right’.”

He is far too enthusiastic, but it has taken his mind off of a misplaced hand and an inconsequential nightmare.  I shall let him win this one.

“If it means so much to you, I will personally write it down on the calendar when we get home.” 

“No.  _I’ll_   write it because I’ll want to be able read it.”

I sniff.  I am wounded.

“So anyway, my beautiful genius, what were you going to tell me I’m right about?”

Johns eyes lock with mine, his smile softens, growing more…seductive ( _I_ am certainly seduced by it).  His finger strokes my jaw and… I can no longer think.  I can no longer remember…

“You are right about _everything_?”  I throw out a wild guess.  How can he expect me to know the answer when I can only think about kissing him?

He chuckles.  “Nice try, but we both know that’s not true.  I won’t press it.  I’m happy just to know I was right about something, even if I don’t know what it was.”

I am bored with this conversation.  My mind wanders to more important matters.

“John, love.”

 “Yes?”

 “John, love.”

“What?”

“I am experimenting.  I like it when you call me ‘love’; I often wonder what it sounds like with your name attached.  Do you like it?”

“Say it again, I didn’t quite get it before.”

“John, love.”

“Again?”

“John, love.”

“What?”

It strikes me that John can hear me just fine. 

John’s fingers have left my jaw and become quite attentive to my lips.  He nips at the inside of his own lip in expectation of what mine have to offer.

“So what would you like to do today?  We don’t have to catch the train until 4.”

To this question I have no problem providing an immediate answer.

(Do you need it spelled out for you?  We kiss. That is what two mature men do when they are in love.  Now go away; I have better things to do.)

* * *

 

In the train on the way home, I have time to reflect on our eventful weekend.

I visited the first love of my life with _the_ love of my life; London never felt sweeter.  Quite by surprise, I engaged in a heartfelt conversation with Mycroft, which if I am not wrong, may pave a smoother path for us in the future.  Katie learned Uncle Sherlock will become an Official Member of the family.  And most prodigious of all, I became engaged to the best and wisest man I have ever known, a circumstance which humbles me as nothing ever has.  (Unbeknownst to me, sometime in life I accumulated a scant number of cells deep in the recesses of my heart labeled ‘humility’.  It took a brave soldier with a sure hand and steady heart to find them.)

Yes, a successful trip indeed. 

My ear buds plugged into my laptop, I listen to Dvorak’s Cello Concerto in B minor.  John reads The Hobbit.  How he can enjoy children’s books, I have no idea.  He says it is because he pictures himself in the role of the protagonist, going on adventures and battling dragons.  I roll my eyes at the whimsy; he is ever the romantic.

He glances up from his book. 

“You made sure the rings are still in your pocket, didn’t you?”

“Yes, John, for the fourth time, yes.”  I pat my pocket, reassuring him.  We will not wear them until we have a ceremony, but having them on my person reassures me he has promised himself to me, that he will be mine forever. 

John’s hand rests on my leg.  This the first time we have declared our affection in public.  Not that placing one’s hand on a leg underneath a table in a near-empty train car can be called ‘public’, but nonetheless it pleases me.  I picture his strong hand sitting there, claiming me as his own.   Every so often he smooths his hand along the length of my thigh, giving it an affectionate squeeze before his hand once again lies dormant. 

I close my eyes, losing myself in my music, when John taps my leg.

I open an eye and peer at him, the look on his face apprehensive.  His book lies flat on the table, forgotten.

I pull out my ear buds.  “Yes, John?”

“I, uh, I want to talk about something.”

Why does he look so nervous?  His tongue peeks out between his lips, takes a quick lick, and dashes back inside.  Snogging?  _Now_ , John?  I have no aversion to displays of affection, but I do possess a strong sense of privacy and modesty.

“Not here, John.”

He looks startled.  Can he be surprised I know exactly what he is thinks?  Of all people he should have faith in my powers of deduction.

“No!  God no!”   He lowers his voice as he realises his volume has exceeded what is acceptable in the ‘quiet car’.  I do not understand why he agrees with me with such vehemence when it was he who made the suggestion, but I am relieved. 

“I agree,” I say.  “I have no interest in snogging you here, but when we get home, I will be quite happy to accommodate you.  And I expect no less in return.”  I smile at him.  The matter is settled.

“Snogging?”  John asks, perplexed. 

Maybe the matter is not settled.

“Yes.  Is that not what you want to talk about, that you would like more kisses?”

“No, Sherlock.  What I want to talk about is…sex.”

Now _I_ am the one who is consternated.  He wants to have sex?!  On the _train_?!  Whilst I know that in his younger days, before he met Mary, he was quite daring, I am surprised to learn his tastes have not mellowed. 

“As much as I love you, John, I think this is neither the time nor the place to engage in sexual relations.”

“What?!  Have you gone balmy?!  No, no, I want to _talk_ about sex, not _do_ it here.  Jesus.”  He struggles to keep his voice down, for the most part successful on key words, such as ‘sex’ and ‘do it here’. 

“No, Sherlock, I’ve been thinking about sex.”  He looks at my blank stare.  “Between you and me,” he says, adding under his breath, ‘Jesus Christ’.

“Oh.”  I am not sure what there is to talk about, but John seems to have something to say. 

“Do you ever think about having sex?  I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you have ever, uhm, ever fornicated, and I want to know how you feel about it.”

“Talk about sex?  I do not mind doing that.”

“What I mean is, do you ever think about _having_ sex?”

“Of course.  I do it all the time.”

He looks relieved.  “I’m so glad to hear you think about it, this is awkward enough as it is.”

“No, John, I do not mean I _think_ about it.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“I do not _think_ about having sex, I _have_ sex.”   How what I say can not be clearer, I do not know, but now he looks more confused.  His face turns red; the prize-winning beets at the county fair would be envious of such a rich hue.  Embarrassment?  No.  Anger?  Aaahh, that is it.  But why?  What have I said?

“What do you mean you _have_ sex?!”

“I have sex.  Every day.”  Now I am annoyed.  Why does John make this so complicated?

“ _Every…_ Ok, let me get this straight.  Here you’ve been accusing _me_ of having a lover and all along _you’ve_ had one?  Is _that_ what you’re doing in the middle of the night when you say you can’t sleep, when you say you’re getting up to work on your experiments?  You’re meeting _him_?  Who is he?!”

I look at John, puzzled.  “What do you mean ‘who is he’?  There is no ‘he’.  And please, John, keep your voice down.”

“No ‘he’?  You mean it’s a ‘ _she_ ’, then?  You’re having sex with a _woman_?”

“No, John.  I do not have sex with either a woman or a man.  I have sex with myself.”

His mouth flies open, but no sound comes out.  One, two, three…he throws his head back and laughs.

“You don’t have _sex_ Sherlock, you masturbate.” 

“That is what I said.”  Really, John, perhaps we should enroll you in a vocabulary class if you have such difficulty with the English language.  How you graduated medical school and lived all these years without being aware masturbation is sex, I have no idea.

“Christ, I’m relieved.  I was ready to go shoot some poor bastard.  So you _do_ think about having sex, then.  Intercourse.”

“No, I do not think about intercourse.  I take care of my sexual requirements in a methodical fashion on a regular basis; I need no assistance. ”

“Yes, daily, as you so matter-of-factly pointed out.  Really?  You get it up every day?  More than once?”  

“’Get it up’?  I am not familiar with that term.”  Why is he so intrigued? 

“Get it up.  You know, get hard?  Get a hard on?  Get an erection?”

“Erection.  Oh, yes, I have an erection every day.  It is quite useful when one desires to ejaculate.”  I think about this.  “I believe that is the only way one _can_ ejaculate.  I have not studied the subject to a great degree, just enough to determine the appropriate frequency.”

“Do you fantasize?”  John’s curiosity is piqued, as if sat at the local pub waiting to hear recent gossip.

“Fantasize?  Fantasize about what?”

“Me?  Or… someone else.  Or, I don’t know, pictures you’ve looked at?”

“What would I fantasize about?  What I do is merely an exercise to promote prostate health.  It is a necessary biological function which will help increase my life span.  John?  Why are you laughing again?  Do you find my health a humorous subject?”

“God, I love you!”  

John hugs me from the side, not seeming to know or care that I do not hug him back; I am too surprised at the outburst.  How what I said elicits an enthusiastic declaration of love I have no idea, but I am not averse to receiving any and all such pronouncements from him. 

“I love you, too, John.  (Are you…?  Are you wiping _tears_ from your eyes?!   Really, John, do collect yourself.)  But I do not see what you find so amusing.  Are you not the one who insists, with annoying regularity I might add, ‘Eat, Sherlock, you need to keep up your strength’.  ‘Sleep, Sherlock; you’ll get sick if you don’t’.  Do you no longer care about me?”

“’Go fuck yourself, Sherlock!’”  This John says as he gasps for air, still wiping his eyes.  “I’m sorry, love, really.  I’m not trying to be rude; I mean it only in the most literal sense.  Your prostate health is a serious issue to me.”

I wait for John to calm himself; I have not seen him lose himself in such a fit of mirth in close to 10 years.  Watching him laugh with such abandon fills me with love; how I adore this man. 

“Exactly, John!”  I am glad he comes to see my point of view.

His normal demeanor reinstated, albeit with a giggle tucked in here and there, he says, “That felt good.  I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.”

John pauses for one more deep breath.  “I wasn’t trying to make fun of you; I think I was just so relieved to know you don’t have a lover.  I had no idea I could get that jealous.”   His brow furrows as he ponders this new discovery.

“So tell me Sherlock, how does getting yourself off help you?  Help your health? ”

“’Get myself off?”  I do wish he would limit his use of colloquial speech.  He knows I do not engage in the language of popular culture; it is coarse and inarticulate.

“Ohhh, Sherlock.  Ejaculate.  How does ejaculating every day help you?”

“I am surprised you do not know this, but I suppose after you left the clinic you do not follow all the latest studies.  But research shows that daily ejaculation lowers rate of prostate cancer.  The research is not yet conclusive, but every indication is that they are on the right path.”

“Have you given any thought for doing it for other reasons?  Like engaging in sex with another person?  No, let me make myself clear, having sex with me, and only me. ” 

John slides his hand into mine, entwining our fingers, leaving enough space between our palms so he has room to brush his thumb along my palm.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“If you want me to answer your questions, then you had best keep your thumb still.   You know I cannot…” 

He does not still his thumb.

“I cannot…”

“You cannot, what, love?”

The smile on his lips reflects in his eyes.  As I look into them I feel as if I am drowning in an iridescent pool alight from within, and all I want to do is drown in them and never resurface.  By sheer willpower I tear my eyes from him. 

I turn my attention to my laptop, pretending to find something of interest.  His thumb still ignites a fire in my palm, but without the added incendiary of his eyes, I am able to give attention to our conversation.

“You asked me if I ever think about engaging in sex with you.  I am not opposed to it (the thumb on my palm stutters), but (the thumb stops moving altogether) I do not understand why we would do so.

“I am male, as are you, which means we are unable to procreate; we’re too old to start a family even if it were possible. That reason precludes the necessity. 

“As far as I am able to determine, I have never felt lust.  When I come across media or overhear conversations discussing this irresistible physical urge for another person, I have no clue what they are talking about.  I know when I think about touching you or kissing you, I have a sense of anticipation, a longing for you, but I cannot say it is lust.  This is most embarrassing to say to you, but I think it more possible for me to swoon than to…reach for your genitals.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart, I understand.  You don’t have to want sex; it’s not something I want to push you into.  I’m happy to be with you no matter what.”

“I’m not finished, John.”

“Ok.”

“And the last reason I don’t think about having sex with you is because,” I pause and turn back to look at him.  I am safe to look into his eyes, for his thumb never resumed its lazy path around my palm.  “Because you seem disinterested.”

“What?!”    

He is shocked.  Why should he be? 

“We have been sleeping together for 37 nights, and not once have you mentioned sex or touched me in a manner that indicates you would like that type of physical relationship.  What else can I conclude?”

He lifts to his lips the hand he is holding, pressing them to my fingers as if branding me. 

“Of _course_ , I want you.  Christ, how could I ever let you think I don’t?”

“Since I have no great urge to do so, it is of no great import to me whether we do or not.  But I am well aware that since the desire to engage in sex is a primary indicator of whether or not someone loves another, I have been disappointed that you have not at least suggested it.”

With a seriousness that wipes any hint of a smile off his captivating visage, he tells me, “I haven’t wanted to rush you.  Hell, if you pass out when we kiss, I can’t imagine what would happen if we did much more.  But don’t ever, _ever_ think I don’t want you; nothing could be further from the truth.

“Lean closer to me, my love.” 

I do as told; there is nothing I will not do for John.  (There is an exception to every rule; in this case, it is housework.  But, as it appears my love for him will only continue to grow, I plan to invest in a mop with a longer handle; his will only give me a backache from stooping.)

When I lean my ear down, he puts his mouth close to it; his warm breath overpowers my senses.  But not more than his words.

“Sherlock, love, I want to have sex with you,” he breaths into my ear.  “I want to copulate with you.  I want to make love to you.  I want to do you.  I want to shag you.  I want to fuck you.  As often and for as long as it takes for you to know that I want you.  That I love you in every way it is possible for one person to love another.  ”

I may not understand everything he says, but I understand his meaning.  I likely am as red as he was earlier, but never have I been happier. 

John loves me, completely…

Perhaps I should not rush to such a conclusion. 

Because his thumb again moves against my palm, and only someone who does not love me completely would want to reduce me to a heap of boneless flesh as John is about to do.

“You were awake before I got out of bed, weren’t you?” he asks, his breath still hot against my ear. “You know where your hand laid, don’t you.”

His thumb swirls against my palm.  My eyes drift closed and I feel as if I am floating. 

“You know, don’t you?”  He is patient; waiting for the answer I have not given.

“Mmm, yes.”  Hypnotised by the movement on my palm, I barely have the wherewithal speak. 

“Do you have any idea how good I felt when I woke up with your hand on my cock?  How much physical desire I have for you?” 

Through my haze I think about this.  Cock?  Oh, his penis.  It has to be, because that is the only place my hand rested.  _Do_   I know how he felt?

“No,” I murmur.

“Sherlock, love?”  His voice is so sweet, so gentle, without a hint of what is to come.

Swirl.

“You know how good you feel when you solve a closed-room murder?”

“Aahhh, yes…”  My eyes still closed, I relive the exhilaration, the ecstasy, of solving the most difficult case I have ever experienced.

“Sherlock, honey?”

“Mmmmm?”

“And you know how good you feel when I kiss your back?”

“Mmmm hmmm…”  Against my will, my back arches as I recall the intense pleasure of John’s lips on this most intimate part of me.

“Sherlock, love?”

“Yes, John?”  My voice, soft and low, matches his.  I am enthralled.  For once, I have no idea where he is leading me.  

His voice so quiet I now strain to hear him, he offers the final words that tip me over the edge.

“Remember how _good_  you feel in either of those instances?  Add them together and then you will be close to knowing how I felt when your hand laid on me.  And that is how I intend to make _you_ feel.” 

Swirl.

No, John does not love me or he would not send my senses into overload, causing my brain to whirl like a vortex out of control as it tries to comprehend the depth of desire he has for me.

And when it does comprehend it…

I stop breathing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmmm, I wonder where this could be leading.


	11. The Case of the Missing Libido (John! I'M supposed to write the titles!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is worse for John and Sherlock than staying apart from each other, even if it is for a good cause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like John with Sherlock, my beta Burning_Up_A_Sun is kind and nurturing and patient, far more so than I deserve. Not to mention an amazing writer! (MUCH better than John!) Thank you, Sweetie.

“You said it, love, I didn’t.”

“That is preposterous!  I would never say such a thing!”

“I distinctly remember it, and I quote, ‘You are right about everything’, emphasis on ‘everything’.

John may not be right about everything, but he does have an excellent memory and he never lies to me.  Well, rarely ever.  And when he does, I can always tell.  Well, almost always.

I look at him closely, peering into his eyes.  Trying not to get distracted by the dark flecks on his deep blue irises, the soft eyelashes that perfectly frame them, the crinkles around the edges….Sigh

Let me start again. 

I peer into his eyes- unwavering return gaze.  Chin tilted just so- no defiance.  Hands- unclenched.  Lips- relaxed, lightly moistened, and so utterly, utterly kissable.

Not lying, then.  I glare at him.

“Though I do not recall having been ill, I must have been out of my mind with fever, thus negating any words I uttered whilst I was.” 

“No, no,” John shakes his head in disagreement.  “No, you were quite well at the time.  Though this may have had something to do with it, a bit of a truth serum, I think.”  He demonstrates what ‘this’ is, clasping my hand in his, caressing my palm with his thumb.

Drat you, John Watson!

“Stop that!”  I snatch my hand away.  I see what he is doing and I will have none of it.  “Under such pressure I would tell you that frogs sing opera at Royal Albert Hall and the earth goes round and round the sun.  You do not play fair, John.  I say it again, and I will keep saying it, for I am right. You are wrong, you do not know everything!  And you are _not_ right about this!”

“I may not be right about everything, but I _am_ right about this.  So you’re just going to have to be patient, Sherlock, whether you like it or not.  And I promise that even if you don’t like it now, in the end you will. _Very_ , very much.”

I glare at him with all the vehemence I can dredge up, but I must be losing my touch because my _beloved_ does not blink an eye.  No, he smiles at me.  _Smiles_ !  With all the innocence of the child who tipped over and broke the Ming vase at the National Gallery despite the ‘Do Not Touch’ sign and the rope around it that said ‘Do Not Go Beyond This Point’.  (Mummy and Dad were so angry; they took away all of my science equipment for a day, a _whole_ day.  Mycroft laughed.  50 years later and I am still on the Gallery’s ‘watch’ list.  Hmphh.)

Have I mentioned that I despise John Watson?  That I rue the day I met him?  That I would delete my memories of our spine-tingling, sigh-inducing kisses if I did not think I might, _might_ , want to do it again?  He is a traitor and a thief (he stole my heart, did he not?), and a scalawag of unknown proportions.  I detest him as I never have any other.

Why? 

John says he does not believe I have never felt sexual desire, that I deleted it or repressed it, or some such nonsense.  That since I now know how wonderfully blissful touching him and kissing him feels (he certainly rates himself highly), if I abstain from not only those activities but my daily ejaculations, my sexual attraction to him should be activated.  Then we can resume our physical relationship; take it to a more meaningful level.  Whatever that means.  It is already meaningful for me; is it not for you, John?

As if being barred from kissing him will make me want him more.  What a ridiculous notion.  I have strength of self-control he has never encountered the likes of.  I will show _him_ who wants whom.

The words pop out of my mouth unbidden, “Please, John, just one kiss?”  (Drat!)

“No, honey.  This is for the best, and don’t think it doesn’t bother me as much as it does you.”   As he says this, his eyes rest on my lips, his tongue snaking in and out of his mouth.  You do not play fair, John.

“My eyes are up here, John,” I say drily. 

“Oh, oh yes.  Sorry.”  He clears his throat and moves his eyes higher.   

I cannot help it.  His presence is a powerful magnet, the gravity that roots me to Earth.  I lean down from where I stand over him… one tiny, little taste cannot hurt…

His eyes locked on mine, his tongue leaves his mouth, but this time it does not rush back to its sanctum, it plays with his lips, wetting them in preparation of my arrival.  Thank you, John.  Thank you thank you thank you!

So focused am I on the object of my affection, I do not see the hand that reaches out and places itself on my chest, firmly pushing me away.

JOHN!

“Uh, sorry, love.”  He lets go of a heavy breath; he is as disappointed as I.  He turns and walks away, leaving me to stand watching after him.  I am certain that if he has not already driven me mad, he will.  Soon.

* * *

 

Ha!  I have arrived at the solution!  I know how to get John to kiss me.  (I must remember to donate my brain to science so that after I die it can be studied. In such a superior specimen as mine they will find previously unknown properties that unlock the key to its cunning and remarkable speed.  My brain will be responsible for enhancing the intelligence of ordinary people for many generations to come!)

I am in the garden, pruning the choicest blooms for a bouquet.  It will a beautiful bouquet, if I do say so myself.  Sweeping back into the cottage I dig around in the kitchen to find a vase.  I carefully arrange the roses, add a sprig of fern here, a bud there, and I am finished!   John will be as pleased as he was the last time I gave him flowers, the day I proposed, and no doubt will reward my thoughtfulness with a proper kiss!  I congratulate myself for my cleverness, for the ability to stay two steps of the man who _wishes_ he were as clever as me. 

I carry the vase to where John sits at the table, setting it down with a solid thunk.   Hovering over him, rocking on my heels in anticipation of the inevitable: ‘Oh, Sherlock!  Those are lovely, thank you!’ he will exclaim.  And then he will jump (well… I say ‘jump’) out of his chair, wrap his arms around me and thank me profusely with no small amount of kissing involved.  I beam; my lips tingle with the expectation of the ecstasy they will soon encounter.

Without looking up from his laptop, without even a sidelong glance at the bounty I have arranged with such care, John says, “No.” 

Simply, ‘no’.

“No?  No, what, John?  These are for you.”  I slide the vase along the table, setting it closer to him. Perhaps he did not see the flowers, though they are easily within his peripheral vision.

“No, Sherlock, I’m not going to kiss you.”  John keeps tapping at the keyboard.

“What?  Here I have taken hours to produce for you this artistic vision, and you accuse me of doing it only to further my self-interests?  I am aggrieved.”

He lifts his head to look at me, his face pinching in apology. 

“They are lovely, and they smell…” he leans toward the bouquet and inhales, “heavenly, but ‘no’.  It’s only been a few hours, love, give it time.” 

I am crestfallen.  No springing from his seat, no cry of thanks, no lips pressed against mine. 

“How much time?”  My toe taps with nervous fervor inside my shoe.  I hold my hands behind me where John cannot see.  If he knows how fidgety I am, it is probable he will try to force tea down my throat or make me take an herbal bath.  Neither is the solution to my problem.

“I honestly have no idea.  It could be days or weeks, there’s no way of telling.  It will happen.” 

Days?!  Weeks?!  You might as well shovel the dirt over my grave now, for surely I will die of need.  Need of you.

Seeing the storm on my face, John reaches out to comfort me.  But before he touches my hand, he pulls it back, resting it on his thigh.  I am jealous of his thigh, remembering when it was mine where his hand laid. Remembering the heat of his hand on my skin. 

I spin around and walk to the sofa, throwing myself on it, wondering if I will survive the torment.  

* * *

 

“But, John, this is cruel.”

It is our first night to bed after we enacted the kiss embargo.  I lie on my side of the bed, Johnless.  With a berm of blankets and pillows between our bodies, I cannot hug him; I can barely reach him, and when I do, he swats my hand.  

“Well, it’s either this or you sleep in your old bedroom or on the sofa, your choice.”  John’s words sound harsh, but the regret in his voice tells me our separation affects him as much as me. 

“But I miss you, John.”  I try to stifle the whine creeping into my voice, but I feel true physical pain from being apart from him for so long.  From not being able to feel his warm, solid body against mine.  From not feeling his fingers wrapped around mine, making my heart flutter.  From not being able to press my lips to the soft, smooth skin of his back.

“I miss you, too, honey; you have no idea how much.  Let’s try this a few more days and if it doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.  Ok?”  The berm presses against me; he has pushed his weight towards me, a feeble attempt at non-contact contact.

I turn my face away from him even though he cannot see me in the dark.

“Ok, honey?”  It is a soft plea.

I cannot bring myself to say ‘yes’, to verbally agree to exile myself from him for one minute more. John will have to read into my silence whatever he will. 

“Sherlock, we can stop this anytime you like.  This isn’t a punishment or a way to hurt you.  Or me, for that matter.   We agreed that we want to deepen our physical relationship and to do that we need to well, uhm, find your libido.  But if it’s going to tear us apart in the process, then it’s not worth it.  I meant what I said, I will be with you no matter what, sex or no sex; a lack of orgasms is not worth losing you over.  I love you.  Whatever you want to do, or not, I will be right here by your side.”

I think about this.  It does not matter to me if John and I copulate; the reason I eventually agreed with him was because I know it is something he wants and I want to make him happy.   Is the prospect of ‘the most thrilling feeling I have ever felt’ enticing?  If you do not know the answer to that then you do not know Sherlock Holmes.  Most of all, though, all I can think of is how much I need to touch John; I need him more than air, more than the new microscope.

I have made my decision.

“Do _you_ want to keep on, at least for a while longer?”  I will defer to his wishes.  If he answers ‘yes’, I will do my best to be more cooperative.  But if he answers ‘no’, the barricade between us will disappear faster than a humming bird flaps its wings.  I hold my breath, uncertain what I want the answer to be.

“Yes, Sherlock, yes, I do. I think whatever we have to go through for the short term will be well worth it in the long run.”  He says this almost as if a question, waiting for me to rebut.  I do not.  This is what John Watson wants to do and it is what we will do; the matter is settled. I will bite my tongue when I want to scream, and he will mope around the cottage the next few days.  Delightful.

“All right, if this is what you wish, then it is what we will do.”  All the way on my side of the bed I woefully wish him a good night, my hand pressed up against the berm, imagining it is him that I feel.

“Good night, sweetheart.  I love you.”  His tone is sorrowful.

I nod my head, whispering, “I love you, too, John.”

I toss and turn, trying to find a comfortable position in which to sleep.  There is none; there is no John.  I would move into the living room, but I know it will be worse, to not know he is centimeters away from me.  At least this way I have the minor comfort of hearing him breathe.  It takes until the sun peeks through the curtains, but I fall asleep, my chest rising and falling to the rhythm of John’s breathing, my mind running in a continuous loop, ‘I love you I love you I love you I love you…’.

* * *

 

“Is this really necessary?  Am I not even allowed privacy in the loo?  Is there no sacred place?!”  I bellow, and I refuse to apologize for doing so.

I have tried.  Truthfully, I have tried to keep my temper in check, but I am so buggering frustrated from not being able to touch John, not being able to feel his warmth.  And he will not even let me smell him!  Just one small sniff is all I ask for; what harm could it be?  But he is firm.

I am in the shower and John sits on the lidded toilet, reading the newspaper.  Two days with no kissing, no hugging, no hand holding.  No snuggling.  And now here he is in the loo with me.   This has to stop!

“I’m only here to monitor your personal habits, Sherlock.  We agreed that you will not have sex with yourself.  Whether or not you do it for your prostate, it is a wasteful use of your resources.

“But, John, I cannot properly cleanse myself with you in here.   Your presence is prohibitive.”

“That’s the point.”

His face is a blur through the shower curtain, but I can hear his smirk. 

Turning the page of the newspaper, he says, “Well you’d best get used to it.  Soon I’ll be seeing a lot more of you.  A lot.”  Even the giggle that follows is smirky.

“Smirky Boy.”

“What did you call me?”

“Smirky.  Boy.”

The paper rustles as if folded in a hurry and without any warning the shower curtain whips aside as John says, “Who are you calling Smirky B….”. 

One would think he would know that people do not shower with clothing on, but he seems surprised to see me.  All of me.

“Yes, John?  Something the matter?”  I stand still, my back ramrod straight as I attempt to appear dignified.  It is not working.

He eyes move down my body as if he had never seen a nude male before, his mouth agape, his brows knitted.

“Uh, no.  Uh everything’s all right.  I imagined, I mean, I knew what I’ve seen of you is still in good shape, but Jesus…  I always figured your clothes must hide _some_ imperfection, no one could be that beautiful, but now I can see I was wrong.  So, so wrong.”

Belatedly, I cover up my genitals with my flannel. 

“Eyes still up here, John.”

 “Oh. Oh, yes; I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to, uh, ogle you.”

“Well, I guess it is expected you would have to see me _some_ time…”

He clears his throat, “Uh, yeah.  That’s the way it works. I’ll uh, I’ll close this back up,” he slides the shower curtain closed, and sits back down. " So sorry to bother.”  Contrary to his self-imposed role as sentinel, instead of sitting down, he leaves the loo, almost slipping on the newspaper still on the floor. 

As I continue cleansing myself, I cannot forget the sight of John’s face.  Of the light I saw in his eyes that I have never seen before.  I cannot articulate what it was I saw.  Surprise?  Confusion?  Embarrassment?  No, there was something else, I cannot pin it down.

So deep in thought am I do not realise my breathing has become labored. 

What did I see in his eyes this time?  Something he has hidden…

I thrust into my hand…

His eyes, as bright as the sun.  His lips, parted.  Sucking air in…

My hand moves faster and faster along the length of my penis, my grip grows more firm…

His eyes; John watches me…

My mouth falls open and shower water splashes inside, but I do not notice...

All I want…all I want…all I want….

All I want is John.

I throw my hand out to the shower wall, supporting myself whilst my knees grow weak when I ejaculate; I stroke out the last pulses of my orgasm.

I stand, feeling water wash over me whilst my ragged breathing slows, whilst I will my legs to support me on their own. 

Every day.  Every day for thirteen years and four months I have ejaculated and never once has it been so intense, so…satisfying.  This time it was more than a basic necessity like brushing my teeth or eating.  No, this time it reached deep inside of me and held me tight in its embrace.  As if John were holding me. 

I am languid and content as I finish my shower, only half surprised John has not stormed in to make sure I did not ‘waste’ my orgasm on behalf of my prostate.  Still puzzling over what I saw in his eyes when he opened the shower curtain, I towel myself dry. 

* * *

 

When I come out of the bedroom fully clothed, John is in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil.  Leaning against the counter, his gaze fixed away from me, he stares out the window.  Seemingly deep in thought, he does not turn as I stop at the edge of the room.

I am struck with the sense that though I have known him for going on twenty-five years now, have seen every expression on his face, could pick his walk out of a crowd fifty meters away, could tell you how many hairs he has on his hand, it is as if I am looking at him for the very first time; I have seen him, but I have not observed. 

Colour rises to my cheeks as I remember my thoughts in the shower.  As I look at his hand and wonder how it would feel against me, caressing me in places he has not yet gone.  As I look at his lips and wonder if they would burn me as they whispered along my hip, traveling down to the sensitive skin on my groin.  Lingering there. 

As I look at him, I know there is nothing more I want than to love him in every way one person can love another.

Then it hits me.  What I saw in John’s eyes…

What I saw was desire. The very same sensation that coursed through my body as I masturbated.

I clear my throat, getting John’s attention.  He turns and smiles at me. 

“Hi, sweetie.”  He looks me up and down; this time I do not tell him where my eyes are.

“I am ready, John.”  The assuredness in my voice surprises me. 

“You’re ready?”  He checks his watch and looks back up at me.  “It’s still two hours before we have to leave for the show…”

His head cocks to the side.  He sees something in my face.  What, I do not know.  He studies me, settling on my eyes.  His lips part and his chest gently heaves.

“You’re _ready_?”  Hope and disbelief mingle in his voice.

“Yes.”  A smile spreads across my face and in an instant we are in each other’s arms.

“Thank fucking Christ.  Jesus, if I had to go one more day without touching you...”  The words escape his lips as he burrows his hands into my damp hair and pulls me down to his mouth. 

I cannot unbutton our shirts fast enough.  I need to feel his skin on mine.  I need to feel his heart beating against me with nothing between us but….us.

I do not know what comes next; I will trust John to guide us.  The only thing that matters to me is that John is back in my arms.  Where he belongs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose the title Dear Boy because I've sung a couple of lines in it in my head almost all my life 'Guess you never knew dear boy what you have found. Guess you never knew Dear Boy that she was just the cutest thing around', Like I was singing to my own Dear Boy. And John and Sherlock ARE both dear boys. But a number of chapters into the story, I really listened to the lyrics as applied to Johnlock; change the female to male, of course, and they fit far more than I realized, especially these: 
> 
> 'When I stepped in, my heart was down and out, But her love came through and brought me 'round, Got me up and about.' 
> 
> Is it not fitting? Sigh.


	12. oh god oh god oh god...oh god john

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As with all other time they spend together, the first time Sherlock and John have sex is full of love, laughter, and one small argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugs and thanks to my incomparable friend and beta, Burning_Up_A_Sun. 
> 
> Hugs and thanks to QueenLadyAnne and Thorntonsheart for your friendship and support.
> 
> My life would be a poorer place without you three; you make me rich.

“I am ready, John.”  The assuredness in my voice surprises me. 

“You’re ready?”  He checks his watch and looks back up at me.  “It’s still two hours before we have to leave for the show…”

His head cocks to the side.  He sees something in my face.  What, I do not know.  He studies me, settling on my eyes.  His lips part and his chest gently heaves.

“You’re _ready_?”  Hope and disbelief mingle in his voice.

“Yes.”  A smile spreads across my face and in an instant we are in each other’s arms.

“Thank fucking Christ.”  The words escape his lips as he burrows his hands into my damp hair and pulls me down to his mouth. 

I cannot unbutton our shirts fast enough.  I need to feel his skin on mine.  I need to feel his heart beating against me with nothing between us but….us.

I do not know what comes next; I will trust John to guide us.  The only thing that matters to me is that John is back in my arms.  Where he belongs.

My face buried in his neck, I worry the inside of my lip, my breaths coming in short, quick puffs.  I purposely take a deep, long breath.  Whatever is to happen between us, I desire to be aware of every moment of it; losing consciousness is not an option.

John loosens his hold on me, releasing me from my hiding place, and looks up into my face.

“You all right, honey?  Are you sure you’re ready for this?”  His voice is soft, his eyes searching.

I look at his face, the love and concern written there, knowing there is nothing more I want than to be as close to this man as possible, in every way possible.

I nod my head and take another deep breath, unable to tear my eyes away from his.  “Yes, John.  I need you.” 

My own words sound strange to me, ‘I need you’.  Never before have I wanted or needed another person as I need John.  And yet this feels so right, to place my life in the hands of this man who has been, if not always right by my side, an integral part of me for almost half my life.

Almost whispering, I say it again, “I need you, John.” 

John presses his lips to the palm of my hand.  “You have me; I am yours.  Always.”

His left hand knitted with mine, he kisses my fingers for good measure.  Tilting his head toward the bedroom as if asking a question, I smile in answer.  Yes.  Yes to everything, if it is with You.

We walk to the bedroom, the journey silent. 

Silent except for the noise in my head as I struggle to name a feeling it is difficult for me to identify.  It is doubt.  So used to being the smartest person in the room, the person to whom others look for direction, this time it is different.  This time it is John who has the knowledge, the experience; the one who will lead _me._   The one who will know if I make a mistake.  I push aside the thoughts threatening to undermine me.  I choose to trust John.  To trust him to know that this is what he wants, that _I_ am what he wants. 

He knows me so well.  Standing by the bed, it is as if he heard my inner struggle, the fear that tells me I may not be sufficient for him. 

His eyes roaming my face, his hand squeezing mine, he assures me, “You are perfect, in every way.  Your brain, your heart.  You are absolutely amazing and there is no one else I would ever want here with me at this moment or any other.

“You are beautiful, Sherlock.”

I calm.  Though I may not at this moment agree with all his words, I know he believes them; that is enough for me. 

John lets go of my hand and reaches for my waist as he leans in, kissing my sternum.  I swallow and my chest heaves.  The edges of my vision grow fuzzy.  I shore myself up with another deep breath, exhaling slowly. 

His thumbs tantalizing the sensitive flesh of my abdomen, I have been only marginally aware John has been kissing a lazy path down my chest to my stomach and is now on his way back up.  Up to tease a nipple into his mouth, first flicking it with his tongue and then drawing it into the firm circle of his lips to suck at it.     

I gasp at the intensity, my chest pressing deeper into his mouth.  “John!”  My fingers fly to the back of his head, pushing through his short, soft hair.

Releasing his hold on my nipple, John grins at me; he is far too pleased with himself.  “Hmmm.  Feel good?” 

Before I can answer (it is for the best since it is in doubt whether I could produce anything coherent), he sticks his thumb into my mouth and slicks it on my tongue.  His newly wetted thumb rubs the nipple he has been lavishing his attention on, his mouth now taking possession of the other.

“jo-o-o-hn…” A groan two octaves below my normal range rumbles from my chest.  The electric current developing in my nipples travels, most curiously, down to my groin; it is as if there is a direct connection between the two.  My trousers tighten as the penis that has only ever responded to my own hands thickens.  I am intrigued by this turn of events. But before I have time to ponder it, John leaves my nipples behind, the cool air of the room keeping them firm.   I watch his silver head move, down my chest, pausing only as his lips reach my navel, plunging his tongue inside. 

I may not live another day.

“John?”  My voice is rough.  Apparently air _is_ an essential component to speech.

“Hmmm?”

It is very difficult to think, let alone speak, as my brain scrambles under the assault on my senses.

“I have no need for anything but a small ceremony, if anyone comes at all,” I breathe out in one fluid rush of air before I forget what I want to say.

In between pecks just above my waistband, my lover asks, “You’re…”, kiss, “thinking about…,” nip, “our wedding?”  Suck.

John’s mouth caresses me across my abdomen, inches away from what seems to be quickly becoming the new center of my universe- my penis pushing against the fabric of my pants.  My eyelids squeezed shut against the exquisite agony, I seek forgiveness from the lingual gods for what I am about to think, ‘dear fucking god’.  I am astounded; I never knew anything could feel so good that I would lose possession of my vocabulary.

Panting, it takes moments before I can answer him.  “No, John, I’m thinking about my funeral.” 

This stops him. 

What did I say wrong?  My eyes fly open to see what he is doing.

He pulls himself to his full height.  Even though his does not reach mine, the look on his face is so close to being angry, the effect is as strong as if he were meeting me eye to eye.  “Don’t even _joke_ about such things.  I already went to one and it’s something I never, _ever_ , intend to do again.”  Looking further down, I see his clenched hand.

I do not know what to say.  I do not mean to hurt him, or remind him of the time I did.  Stupid.  _Stupid._ When will I ever learn to think before I talk?

“I am sorry, John.”  My brows knit in consternation as I try to explain to him what I meant.  “It is just that what you do to me feels so good it is as if my body is going to jump out of its skin and my heart pounds in my ears and down to my…penis.  Never has anyone had this effect on me and it is so new and extraordinary and…and not at all dull!”  I know I am speaking too fast, but I cannot help it.  My heart ispounding at about 120 beats a minute, rushing blood to every part of my body.  My entire being is throbbing.  Throbbing with desire for John.

The cloud on John’s face blows away as if it were never there, replaced by a gentle smile. 

“I’m sorry, too.  It’s just that even though it was so long ago, I never forget the memory of when I lost you.  I can’t…I can’t handle the thought of it ever happening again.”

He kisses me, seeking forgiveness, his mouth teasing mine.  His tongue reaches inside, tracing the soft inner lining of my lips, seeking out the corners of my mouth.  He eases my jacket and shirt off cooperative, limp arms, dropping them unceremoniously into a pile on the floor.  Deep in the recesses of my mind I think ‘wrinkles’, but the thought is no more than a blip replaced by the heat of his deepening kiss, his tongue now thrusting into me, demanding I meet it thrust for thrust. 

His hands glide up my naked shoulders to my neck; the thumbs that I will never again take for granted massage the skin behind my ears.  Out of pure instinct I reach around his waist and, by his hips, pull him to me until his body is flush with mine. 

Overwhelmed at what it recognises… John’s erect penis abutting mine, my body insists I stop breathing.  My mind disagrees.

Breathe, Sherlock.  Breathe  Breathe  Breathe… Breathe!!

But I do not.

John leaves my mouth, but mercifully the rest of him stays pressed against me. 

“Breathe, Sherlock.  Come on, love.”  He touches my face, soothing me.  I open my eyes to see him showing me how to breathe, his mouth a big ‘O’ as he draws air in and blows it back out… breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.  I stare at him, mimicking his actions; oxygen flows to my brain.

“There you go, that’s it,” he praises.

But as soon as I remember where his penis is, I start hyperventilating.

“Come on, love,” I hear John say again, refocusing on his face. 

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.  As he has done so many times before, he saves my life.  Noble John.  Beautiful John.  Never living without you, John.  Never. 

His hand still stroking my face, it moves up into my hair, winding curls through his fingers.  His eyes fixed on me, he asks, a small tremble in his voice, “You ready to go on?” 

I take a fortifying breath and nod my head, “Yes.”  I nip my bottom lip, bracing myself.  What will this man who never ceases to surprise me do next?  My eyes and nostrils flare in anticipation.

“I love you, Sherlock.  You are my love, my life,” he whispers against my mouth just before he kisses me again. 

How did I survive so many years without the ecstasy of a kiss?  _John’s_ kiss?

If I could think, I would tell him I love him, too, how besotted I am.  How indescribably happy I am every minute I am with him, that there is no one else I could ever imagine loving.  But I cannot think, so I do not.  I hope he knows anyway.

His fingers drift across my skin, down my chest, down until they are at my trousers.  Splayed across my abdomen, they dip into my waistband, enough to tease but not enough to alarm me.  Waiting to be sure I am agreeable with his movements, he removes his hands from inside my pants and I feel a tug at my belt as he frees it from its buckle.  As he loosens the button, I hear, feel, my zipper descend.  Descend until it is all the way down, easing my restriction. My penis now fully engorged, the fingertip that dips into the breach of my trousers touches the base of me and slides slowly, deliberately up my length until it reaches my glans. 

My head tips back at the same time that I moan.  At the same time that my legs start to give.  John’s strong arms are around me in an instant, preventing me from falling.  I sag against him, recouping my strength to stand.

I feel him chuckle.  “You liked that, did you?”

“Aksdjskakdl.”

He chuckles again.  What is so funny, John?!

“What was that you said?”

“You are a cruel man, John Watson!”

“Why?  Because it felt good?”

“Good?!  It was a 240 volt of electricity…  You could at least warn a man…”  I am silenced by his kiss whilst he shifts us so that the bed is behind me, and with practiced ease, he sits me down.  Presses me into a lying position.  I do not want to know how he learned to be so good at this. 

As I lie looking up at him, my mind wanders.  Am a virgin sacrifice?  Is John laying me here to run a stake through my heart and offer me up to the gods?  I giggle against his lips.  Within seconds I am giggling so hard his lips cannot remain on mine even if they want to.

John sits beside me on the bed, his brows creasing.  “Ok.  Now this is a new one.  I’ve never made anyone laugh before.  What is so goddamn funny?”

“Virgin…sacrifice…to the gods…” I manage to blurt out between giggles. 

“Have you gone daft?!”  John wants to be stern, but unable to help himself, he joins me in my laughter and before we know it, we are both giggling until we cannot breathe. 

When our merriment subsides, I grow serious.

“I am a fifty-eight year old virgin, John.  It has never bothered me to not to have had sex, it was not important.  This,” I sweep my hand over my body, “is all just transport.  Now here I am burdening you with teaching me how to be, well, a _man_.  Are you sure it you want to take this on?”  It is not a question I want to ask; I do not know what I will do if he says ‘no’.  But more and more lately I find that I have unexpected spurts of…consideration.  Increasingly, John’s happiness is becoming important to me.

He looks down at the bulge in his crotch and back at me, cocking an eyebrow.  “What do _you_ think?”

“No, I am serious, John.  What if I cannot please you?”    So caught up have I been in other pursuits in life, I have no knowledge of how to sexually please another.  I have only just learned how to kiss; how can I give John what he needs?  How can I compare to what he has experienced and therefor has developed expectations? 

I do not give him a chance to answer.  “We will stop right now and I will read up on the subject, research techniques that will help bring you to orgasm. I do not want to disappoint you, John.”   My decision made, I start to sit up, reaching for my zipper as I do.

A palm plants itself on my chest, stopping me mid-rise. 

“Now wait a minute.”

I freeze, watching him search for his next words, wondering if he is angry.  But he is not.

His voice gentle, his hand on my chest now caressing me, he says, “Oh, sweetheart, you don’t get it do you?  But how could you?  This is all so new to you.  So let me tell you.  It’s _not_ about technique.  It’s _not_ about how old you are or about how many, if any, people you have been with.  It’s about _this_ …” He touches a finger to the skin over my heart.  “And this…” turning the finger toward his own heart.  “It’s about love and desire.  You feel those things, don’t you?  I know I do.”

I swallow.  How he cannot know I have no idea, but I answer anyway.  “Yes, I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone.  And we have established I desire you.”  I glance down at my own erection which still strains at my pants.

“Okay, then.  This is about nothing else but you and me.  And if you have even one _tiny little_ doubt that you can please me, get rid of it.  Right now.  I mean it. The only way you would disappoint me is if you weren’t here. ”

“So you want to keep doing this, then?” I need to be sure of what he is saying.

“ _Yes_ , you dope.  You leave this bed and I’ll have to chase after you and I really don't want to do that right now.  So stay with me and make it easy on both of us, okay?”

“You are a sensible man, John Hamish Watson.”

“You know I write all these things down to use against you, don’t you?”

A smile teases his lips, but I have no doubt that what he says is true.  I am proud to have chosen such a crafty specimen of a man.

I am a crafty specimen, too.

“John?”

“Yes, love?”  His eyes warm.  He loves me so very much.  I have done nothing to deserve his love, and yet I find myself graced by it time and time again. 

“Take my hand.”  I hold my open palm out to him, and when he puts his hand in mine, I guide it to the gap in my trousers, barely breathing because there is nothing more wondrous than to have John Watson’s hand on me.  It is his turn to moan, and I am humbled that such a simple touch can bring him such exquisite pleasure. 

“Fucking _Christ_ , Sherlock.”

“Never underestimate me, John.  Now it is my turn.”  A tremor in my hands, I fumble with his buckle.  Unbutton him. Unzip his jeans.  My hands pause, hesitating before taking the next step.  As close as we are in so many ways, this is still unnerving.  To unclothe John, to reveal the most intimate part of his body. 

Seeing my hesitation, John stands and places his hands on the back of mine, holding them as he puts them on the band of his jeans.  I shadow him.  Gripping the band with my fingers, I wait as he pulls his glans out so as not to get caught, and together we pull his jeans and pants down his hips. 

I am riveted by the sight of him. 

More slack-jawed than I would care to admit, I look up at John. “You are beautiful,” I say, with no small amount of awe in my voice. 

He puts my hand on him, where I touch the silkiness of his shaft.  Feel the ridges of his veins with the tips of my fingers.  Smooth along the edge of his glans, and up to the top, where its velvety softness causes my breath to hitch.  Mesmerized, I swirl my finger through the beads of liquid that have collected there.  I am entranced with this new part of John. 

He shudders.

“Are you cold?”  I am concerned; I do not want him to become ill.

“Uh, no.”

“Do you mind if I get into bed with you, now?  I’d really like to, uh, be together.”

This amuses me.  He has no trouble revealing his nakedness to me, but to put into words what he would like to do causes him to stutter.

“Why?  Would you like to copulate with me?  Shag me?  Fuck me?”  I am shocked at how easily his words roll off my tongue.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”  He toes his shoes off and hurriedly pulls his pants and jeans, kicking them off to join the rest of the clothing lying there.  “Scoot over.”

“Your shirt?”  I point out that he has not yet removed it.

“Your slacks and underwear?” 

Touché.

I scoot over to his side of the bed, and before climbing into mine, he takes off his shirt.  The proverbial glove has been thrown to my feet in challenge.

I am by no means ashamed of my body.  Neither am I proud of it; it just… _is._   But after living alone for so many years, and even during the short time I have lived with John, dressing and undressing are a private affairs.  Seeing each other naked is a line we have never crossed.

I clench my jaw as I prepare to cross the line. 

Stalling for time, I ask, “Are you sure you don’t want the honours?”  After all, it is only fair since I undressed him.

Standing there, John shakes his head, his eyes never leaving mine.  “No, no.  You go right ahead.” 

Lifting my buttocks from the bed, I remove the rest of my clothes and toss them off the side of the bed; I might as well make the trousers and jacket a wrinkled set.

“Happy now?” 

For one split second he glances down at my now naked midsection and back up to my face.   Sucking in a deep breath, he says, “Yes.  Oh _god_ yes.”  His eyes, which briefly glazed over, clear, and he climbs into bed beside me.  If I did not know him better, I would think he were as nervous as I.

“Now, what?”  I ask, uncertain what to do. 

“Now this.” 

John pulls the covers up over us and slides over to hold me.  Just hold me, his heat warming me.  It is exactly as it is every night when we come to bed, except now we face each other and there is a penis nudging my belly and my penis lies against him.

So.  Not exactly like our normal arrangement. 

I start to quake and I cannot stop.  I press into him.  I want rub against him, to ease the ache building in me.

The light in the room is still on and when John pulls back from where his head rested on my shoulder, I see his face.  See the dark blue eyes that never fail to send flutters through my stomach, that tell me how very important I am to him, that tell me he always wants the best for me. The gentle smile that settles on his face sends me over the edge and I crush my mouth to his, thrusting my tongue inside his mouth.  I thread my knee between his legs and hold him tight, bringing him as close to me as humanly possible. 

My craving for John bordering on desperation, no matter how deeply we kiss, no matter how tight I hold him, I cannot get enough of him.  I need more.  More John.

It seems John has other ideas.  It seems _he_ needs more _me_.

His mouth leaves mine and he scorches a trail down my neck, pausing to suckle at its crook.  My hips push into him, but he takes no notice.  The mouth that lights a fire in me travels further down, burning a new path down my chest.  Kissing one nipple and moving down, his lips press hard against me, as if he did not, he would not be able to feel me, to taste me.  One hand is on my chest to brace himself, the other glides down my back in tandem with his mouth on the front of me.  He has nudged my knee out of the way to give himself room to move, room to keep moving down my body.

He stops, resting his head against me.  I feel his warm breath on me, coming in staccato puffs.  Puffs on the tip of my penis.  The hand that had been on my back is now smoothing my buttocks, caressing them, squeezing my roundness, the sensation all at once soothing and arousing.  I thrust my hips involuntarily, hitting John’s mouth.  Both he and my glans are warm, moist, firm.

His lips part.  I feel his hot breath, feel his tongue taste me.  It is all I can do not to push into his mouth.  I scrabble for something to hold onto.  Something.  Anything.  Anything to keep me from spinning off the bed.  I grab John, my fingers piercing into him.

He tries not to, but he cannot help the “Oww!” that bursts from him, his mouth leaving me.

Oh no oh no oh no oh no.  I grunt.  “I am so sorry, John!”  With effort I loosen my grip; it is almost as if rigor mortis has set in, so difficult is it to release my fingers from him. 

Without moving from where he is, he laughs.

“It is not funny, John!  I nearly impaled you…ten times!”  I am more scared than angry.  To hurt John would cause me far more pain than it ever would him. 

He rubs his cheek against me.  “Don’t worry, honey.  It’s understandable, you’re excited.  Hold on to me, just try not to dig in so hard, okay?”

Excited?  I am a little _excited_ ?!  ‘Excited’ is used for finding the severed body part of a victim that reveals the method of murder.  For finally identifying the soil sample that tells me where a murderer buried a body.  This, John, _this_ is life altering, earth shattering.

I press my palms to him, concentrating on keeping my fingers from stabbing him.  Concentrating until…

Licking the hand that was on my chest, John wraps it around my shaft and without warning my glans is sucked into his mouth, his tongue swirling around me.  He squeezes my buttock, and

I

am

gone….

Oh god oh god oh god oh god john oh god john

oh

god

john

One hand claws at the covers, fisting a large wad, the other grabs his shoulder. 

My pelvis rocks in tempo with John as his mouth pulls on me, his lips venturing further and further down my shaft, his hand gripping me, stroking me as if he will never let go.

Oh god john oh god john oh god john

Pressure builds in me, filling every part of my body; I breathe deeper, harder.   My heart beating so fast I wonder if my blood will break through my veins and wash through me.

Oh god oh god oh god

My scrotum cupped and massaged, my buttocks tense, levitating my hips off the bed.

“Jo-h-h-n-n-n…..!!!”

A warm rush of fluid bursts from me and many heart-pounding, semi-conscious moments later, I lay drained of life on the bed, the dwindling pulses of my orgasm the only sensations that have meaning for me until they are gone and my brain is flushed clean of all thought.  Of all thought but John.

I am vaguely aware that he pulls a towel out of the bedside drawer (when did you put that there?), wipes his hands and me, throws it to the end of the bed and crawls up beside me, where I can see him out of the corner of my eye.  My panting recedes as I re-oxygenate; I roll toward him and look into the kindest, most loving face I have ever seen.  I thought before that I was in love with him.  I was wrong.  It was no more than the tiniest atom in a universe filled with atoms in comparison to what I now feel; the swell of love in my heart nearly overcomes me. 

I try to reach out for him, but my muscles do not cooperate.  There is not much I can do, but I am able to muster a tired smile.

“Idiot.”

With a tender smile, John pets me, his fingers playing with my curls.  “The feeling is mutual.” 

I lie with my eyes closed, content to just _be_.  Be with John.  Be loved.

Minutes later I open my eyes to see him still watching me with the same soft smile.   My heart is full.

It comes to me with a start that he did not have an orgasm.  Or did he?  How could I be so selfish not to think of this before now?  (‘Selfish’.  ‘Consideration’.  I am adding more new words to my vocabulary.  Later John will tell me it is called ‘the language of love’)

“Did you…?”

“No, I didn’t; it was all about you, love.”

“But it is not all about me,” I protest.

John eyebrow arches.   I am as aware as he of the irony of my statement.

“This time it is.  There will be time for me later.”  Lifting the covers to leave, “I’ll be back in a few, I have to, uh, go use the loo.”

My uncharacteristically sluggish brain begins functioning properly; I know why he wants to ‘use the loo’.  “Stay here.  I am afraid I will not be of much help, but I would like you to stay.”  I fear it may be days before I again have the ability to move. 

He looks uncertain.  “Are you sure?  I’m not exactly an exhibitionist…”

“Please do not go.  I want to know everything about you, including this.  It will be my…privilege.”

He deliberates.  “Well, if you’re sure _…”_

“I am _sure_ , John.”

John holds his hands up in surrender.  “Okay, okay, keep your pants on!”

We look at each other and laugh; it is a little late for that.

Reaching back into the bedside drawer he pulls out a small tube, uncaps it, and squirts some liquid in his palm.  He reaches down under the covers.  His eyes locked with mine, his shoulder moves up and down as he strokes himself.  I watch as his eyes lose their focus on me, as his lips part and his chest heaves, drawing in deeper breaths.  Watch, as if against his will, his eyes flutter shut, his eyelashes quivering ever so slightly.  His eyes open to look at me, but he cannot keep them open, instead they close again, his shoulder moving faster, his breaths coming in pants.

Never has he been more beautiful.

I put my thumb in his mouth and he clenches it with his teeth.  A long moan follows it as his body tenses.  The mattress shifts as he continues, his strokes growing ever more long and slow, until they stop and a final moan escapes him. 

Growing as limp as did I, John relaxes into the bed, a smile playing on his lips.  I lay my hand on his cheek and stroke his face.  His smile deepens and he purrs.  To the sound of his contentment and the vision of his beloved face in my mind, I fall asleep.

* * *

 

“What are you doing, John,” I mumble.  Waking up, I hear him bustling about in the dark. 

“Here, get up for just a minute will you.  We’ll regret it if I don’t get some fresh sheets on the bed.”

My legs like rubber, I manage to stand up and help him make the bed.  (by ‘help’ I mean ‘stay out of the way’;  I cannot change everything about myself all at once!)

With the soiled sheets tossed into the hamper and the bed newly made, we lay back down, this time on our respective sides.   Not bothering to put on bed clothes, I curl around the back of him and drape my arm over to rest my hand on his stomach. 

For as long as I can remember there have been few things that have been important to me.  To solve the perfect crime (This I did three times).  To be the smartest person in the room (Rarely does it happen that I am not).  To live a life independent of the tedious demands of people who did not and do not matter to me. 

Until now.  Until John, who matters as no one else ever has.

I remember thinking, after I kissed John that first time, that I had no more regrets, that I had realised my only unfilled dream.  But now a feeling washes over me that I do not understand…regret for the years I did not have an intimate relationship with this man who has become everything to me. 

How can I regret something I never desired?  How can I miss something I never had?  Heaviness fills my heart as I regret that all these years I could have loved, and been loved by, John, yet these things did not happen.  I could have known the feel of his skin against mine, the warmth of his lips, the beat of his heart, the sweet sounds of ‘love’ and ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’ resonating through me.  I could have been with the person who accepts and loves me as no other has, who sees all the things in me that repels others, and yet still loves me. 

Holding the man in my arms closer to me, the few cells in my heart that harbor humility increase twofold, and twofold again.  

I draw a deep breath, filling my nostrils with John.  I want to never move again, to never experience physical separation from him.  To always feel the expansion and contraction of his body against mine, as if we were One. 

His voice is soft in the dark.  I thought he was asleep, but he is not. 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

How John does this, I have no idea; I can hide little from him.  Long ago I could lie about almost anything and he would have believed me, but not anymore.  Now, he is as attuned to me as is a musician to a cherished instrument.

“If I told you ‘nothing’, would you believe me?”   I do not want to tell him I am sad.  I do not want to tell him I long for things that never were.  That I grieve for the 25 years we could have had together but did not.  I do not want to tell him I have become… ‘sentimental’. 

He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it.  “No, I wouldn’t believe you.”  He snuggles my hand with his own under his neck.

I say it anyway, knowing he will not believe me, “Nothing.” 

And with a sudden clarity it comes to me that right now, nothing _is_ wrong.   _Right now_ , in my arms, is everything I want.  Everything I need.

John. 

I kiss his shoulder and say it again, stronger this time.  Believing it, because it is true. 

“Nothing at all.”


	13. I am a ridiculous man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock brings home a 'guest', much to John's dismay. He did it with the best of intentions, but thank god he has a man who understands him and loves him so very, very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaargh! It's been such a long time since I last posted. I am so sorry for the delay, life has been busy. The highlight being a 2500 mile road trip that found me at two, yes TWO, Paul McCartney concerts (squee!!) and the Cirque du Soliel Beatles LOVE show in Las Vegas. 
> 
> Never ending love and gratitude to my dear friend and beta, Burning_Up_A_Sun. I bow down to your talent and thank you for your keen eye.

"Good morning, love!”

Regaining consciousness one befuddled brain cell at a time, the voice I hear is annoyingly chipper.  Blocking out the noise, I stretch and yawn, the bed too warm and soft to give serious thought to rising.  My nose twitches.  Bacon?  John hardly ever cooks bacon; he says it is not good for our arteries.  Opening my eyes there is John, still in his pyjamas, smiling at me.  A serving plate in his hand. 

Eyeing him warily, my gaze shifts, surveying our bedroom.  Nothing appears different from the night before, but something distinctly odd has occurred.  John has arisen… before me. 

I frantically search my brain for possible causes to this anomaly.  Perhaps I hit my head and lost my memory.  Or maybe I have an undiagnosed sleep disorder.  Most alarming, I consider the possibility that John has drugged me to avenge himself for the countless experiments I have conducted on him; he told me he forgave me, but perhaps he has been lying in wait all these years for a time when I am at my most vulnerable.  (It was for science, John!)

“What have you done to me?” I demand of my betrothed. Betrothed.  I may have to revisit my decision to marry him.  He has hidden his vengeful nature well.

The uplifted sides of John’s mouth fall.

“What do you mean ‘what have I _done_ to you’?   Don’t you remember last night?”

“Of course, I do.  We… copulated. But I never sleep this late.  You must have anesthetised me, or dosed me with a sleeping tonic you have saved from your clinic days.  If you are still upset over a few harmless experiments…”

“Shag, Sherlock.”

“What?”  My brain must still be under the influence of whatever treachery he employed; I have no idea what he is talking about.

“Shag.  We didn’t ‘copulate’, we shagged.  We fucked.  We _made love_.  It’s time you brought your vocabulary into the twenty-first century.”

“Why must I?”  I am so startled by the accusation that my vocabulary is inadequate, I am momentarily distracted from the important matter at hand.

“Because then I won’t feel like I spent the night as your lab specimen.”

“Okay, have it your way.  We ‘shagged’, we ‘fucked’, we… ‘made love’,” I huff in exasperation.  “What does that have to do with the fact that you tried to kill me?!” 

“Tried to kill you?!  What in the f… What _are_ you talking about?”  His mouth agape, the plate of food lists precariously in his hand.

“The world has tilted on its side and I do not understand why.  There are certain things I can depend on without fail- Being able to identify a brand of cigarette or cigar by a sample of ash invisible to the naked eye.  Possessing a more extensive knowledge of ciphers and their applications than the most noted scholars in the world.  Being the smartest person in the room (I privately add the exception ‘unless Mycroft is in the room’.  There is no reason to share this triviality with John).  Awakening before you.   As surely as I know you lost your virginity to a girl named Daisy whilst in fifth form…”

“Wait?  What?  I never told you…”

“Pay attention, John!  As I was saying, you have administered to me something which rendered me unconscious; no other explanation is suitable.  I simply do _not_ sleep for nearly nine hours.”

John’s smile has returned, his face barely big enough to contain it.  “ _I_  tilted Sherlock Holmes’ world.  I’m right chuffed about that one.”

“No need to be so pleased with yourself.”  I try to sound stern, but I cannot maintain my pretense.  I have made John happy, and I find there is nothing in my new life with him that pleases me more.  Even if it is as a result of him trying to murder me in my sleep.

“Where did you get the idea I tried to kill you?  Been reading your old case notes again?  It always puts you a bit off, thinking everyone is out to murder someone.  You just slept well because you got shagged.  It’s not uncommon, you know.”

Ahhh, yes, last night.  I smile at the memory.  What an unusual, yet satisfying, experience; I will most definitely have to try it again. 

Reaching my arm toward him and wiggling my fingers, I beckon him.  Setting down the plate, he locks his fingers with mine.

“Come here,” I say, my tone hushed in the quiet morning.  Tugging at his hand to bring him closer, he climbs onto the bed and straddles me, his knees hugging my thighs.  There are far too many layers of bedding and clothes between us, but the weight of him as he leans onto me helps make up for these other…momentary inconveniences.  Threading his fingers through my hair and wrapping his hands around the back of my head, he leans down the rest of the way until his lips meet mine.

I melt.

Into him.  Into the mattress.

Realising I am not opposed to starting every day this way.

\----------------------------------------

I am certain the page in front of me contains words as has, very reliably, every page I have ever read in my life, but they are a blur as my eyes flick back and forth between the file and John.  John and the file.  I have now been sitting here in my chair for hours, waiting for a window of opportunity to make my escape.

I shift in my seat.  And shift again.  It is impossible to find a comfortable position when all I can think about is taking my leave.  My eyes dart back and forth.

John.

File.

File.

John

Clock.

Bugger. 

John looks up from his own reading material and frowns.  “What’s wrong with you today?  Do you have a bee in your pants?  Or are you still worried I’m going to try to kill you?”  His frown evolves into a smirk.  How I fell in love with such a mean-spirited man, I have no idea.

“ _Nothing_ is wrong with me,’ I say, my words clipped.  “I am reading up on a case Lestrade sent to me.  Is that quite all right with you?” 

“Of course, it is.  But if something _is_ wrong, I’d rather you tell me than letting it build up until you, or something else, explodes.” 

Nothing is wrong, but I _am_ anxious to set my plan in motion.  A plan that cannot be revealed to John until it is under way.

This morning after our breakfast (Belated breakfast, I sigh contenedly.), as he groused about his dearth of funds whilst balancing his bank account, I devised a scheme to help him with his plight.  A plan so blindingly simple, I blush at my own brilliance.  But the plan means I must drive into the city and I do not want him to know I am going until it is too late for him to do anything about it; he says I drive like an ‘ambulance driver without brakes’.  He does not forbid me from driving (just try, John!), but I wish to avoid the argument that will ensue if I do not leave whilst he is unaware.

“Are you not taking a shower today, John?  You always take a shower and it is now,” I pretend to consult my watch though I know exactly what time it is, “… three-oh-six.”  My foot taps in double-time on the rug beneath it.  The clock is ticking. 

“Hold on to your pants, I’ll get to it.”  Flipping a page, he squints at the print and absent-mindedly switches on the lamp beside him, its imperceptible glow doing nothing to help him in the afternoon light.  (Note to self: Call Optometrist and coerce stubborn beloved to attend appointment.)

“No, John.  Now!  Soon you will need to fix dinner, then we will eat, you will do the dishes, and before you know, it that ridiculous show you like to watch, ‘The Only Way is Sex, or whatever it is, will start.  There is no time to waste!” 

“What the…  It’s ‘The Only Way is Essex’, and it’s a BAFTA winning show, if you must know.  Tonight Billie….”

I interrupt him.  “SHOWER, John!” 

“All right, all right.  Jesus.  If it will make you happy.”  His book lands with a thwack on the leather foot stool.

I smile.  I have won.  You will thank me later, John.  Oh yes, you will thank me later. 

As he walks by me, a lopsided grin lifts one side of John’s face.  An eye brow rises and he wiggles it at me.  (Are you being… _coquettish_ , John?)

“Would you like to join me?”  He nods toward the loo, the other side of his face lifting, his eyes shining with expectation.

I bite the inside of my lip; it _is_ tempting.  The thought of John naked under the hot shower, my hands on his soap-slicked skin, a kiss that will leave us both breathless…

I shake myself from my reverie; I must complete my mission.  One that will, I have no doubt, result in such a surge of gratitude he will happily take a thousand showers with me. 

I smile at him broadly.  And lie.  I feel only the smallest pang of remorse for doing so, after all, what I am doing is for his own good.

“An excellent idea!  Go get the shower started and I will be with you in a moment.  I just want to finish this one small section.”

I wave my hand at him, shooing him toward the loo andshuffling the papers as if finding my lost spot, excitement surging through me as I mentally poise for a quick exit.

Several minutes later, hearing the stream of water from the creaking pipes hit the shower floor, I dash for the door and leave the cottage, vehicle keys in hand.

* * *

 

_Where are you?!  I was waiting for you and you just run off to god knows where?!_

**_Do not shout at me, John.  I am running an errand and will be home by 6.  SH_ **

_No texting and driving.   Promise me, okay?  Your driving is abominable as it is. And I am NOT shouting!_

 

_Are you almost home?_

_Sherlock?_

_Sherlock!_

_It’s half past 7.  You should be home by now.  Where are you?_

 

_Goddammit, Sherlock.  Are you all right?  I swear to God, if you were in an accident and you aren’t already dead, I’m going to kill you.  Now answer me._

**_You told me not to text and drive.  Really, John, do make up your mind.  SH_ **

 

**_John?  SH_ **

_What?_

**_I love you, too.  SH_ **

_:-)  Come home soon, baby.  I miss you._

\-----------------------------------

When I return to the cottage, I do not receive the grand reception I envisioned.  The ‘ooh’s’ and ‘ahhh’s’ and ‘You’re Amazing!’ are nowhere in evidence.  Instead I am greeted by a compact ball of fury that is more likely to thump my head than to smother me in kisses.

John slams our bedroom door behind us, pointing toward the room we just left.

“Who the _hell_  is that?!” 

Does he not remember?  Only moments ago I told him the man in the sitting room is named Mark.  You are so forgetful these days, John.

“Sherlock?  Who.  The HELL.  Is _that_?!”   He hisses the words, presumably so as not to scare off his new client, but the effect is the same as if he is shouting.

“Mark.” 

“ _Yes_ , I heard that part; I get that his name is _Mark_.  But why the hell did you tell him I would have sex with him!?”

I lick my lips.  I do not like the hue on his face; it is not becoming.

I speak slowly, starting from the beginning.  He is obviously having trouble with the concept of freelance services.

“Did you not say you are low on funds?”  I ask.

John’s brow creases.  “Yes.  And _so_?”

“And _‘so’_ , did you not say you would not let me loan you money?” 

(I do not tell him how affronted I was.  He will let me allow him to live here practically rent free, most of our groceries purchased on my card, and I recall I was the last to fill the car with petrol even though I hardly ever drive.  But the moment I offered to loan him some money…well , I say _loan_ … he became offended.  ‘I’m not a freeloader Sherlock; I’m just a little short on cash since I’ve been helping Katie with her rent.’  ‘I did not say you are a freeloader, John.  I merely said that since you are inept at handling your personal finances…’  His pointed stare caused me to stop speaking.)

“I _said_ that I can take care of myself.  I just need to cut back on some expenses for a few months.”

“So you need money.  And I am trying to help you do so.  How can you not see that this is a perfect solution to your problem?”

“By selling my ‘ _services’_!” 

I smile as he gives me his ‘What the _fuck_ ’ face; it really is so very endearing.

“Yes, John, by selling your services; it is as simple as that.  You do for him, uh, what you did for me last night and he gives you money.  It is all very straightforward and you both walk away getting what you need.  If you are worried you are not qualified, I will vouch for your expertise.”  My face, and groin, grows warm at the thought.  My eyes stray to his lips and I consider opening the window to cool myself off. 

The whole of his face pinched into a tight grimace, John holds the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger until he takes a deep breath and speaks again.

“Sherlock, I am _not_ going to sell my ‘services’.  Even if I were young and attractive…”

I interrupt him.  “You are very handsome, John.  Any man would be lucky…”

John raises a palm to me.

“Stop.  Just _stop_.”  He glares at me.  “What I look like is not the point.  What I’m saying is that no _matter_ what, I do not, _Jesus,_ dole out blow jobs to any fucking Tom, Dick, or Harry…”

“His name is Mark.”  How does he keep forgetting this?

I hope John never has to defend his life in hand-to-hand combat.  We are only talking and he is already exhausted, his mouth floundering wordlessly and his shoulders slumping in defeat.  I am relieved to see he has the energy to shake his head.   Perhaps instead of a fight to the death he could offer the option of a head-shaking contest; my John would win.  I beam proudly at his cleverness.

“Again, _not_ the point.  I only do intimate things with people I love.”

“So you loved every person you ever had sex with…”  I purse my lips.  It is next to impossible to have a rational conversation with Angry John.

“That was a long time ago and that was different.  It was consensual sex with…”

Opening my mouth to point out that this encounter, too, will be consensual, I think better of it.  My mouth snaps back shut.

“… people I was attracted to.  And now, well, the _only_ person I’m going to be intimate with is _you._ ”

The anger on his face receding, it is replaced by a warm smile.  A John smile. 

I smile back and my heart pounds against my ribs. 

Moving closer to me, he takes my hand in his and swirls his thumb against my palm.  I breathe deeper, hypnotised by the wells of blue in his face that just moments ago I would have sworn were eyes.  Now I would be hard pressed to name their sorcery.

“Sherlock, love?”

Unable to speak, I nod for him to continue.

“Do you think it’s a good idea for me to do this to Mark?”  Two fingers touch me mid-thigh; I shiver as they press against me, making contact with my skin through the light fabric of my trousers. Trailing up my crotch, as he outlines my scrotum.  My awakening penis. Until he reaches my zipper tab. 

Swallowing with difficulty, my eyes continue to focus on him, my brain registering little but the hum in my groin.

“No,” I manage to croak.

“This?”

John’s unzips me and reaches into my pants, my penis swelling to meet the contour of his hand as he fondles me.  His face angelic, it is as if he is not trying to drive me mad and nearly succeeding.

“No!”  I grab his hand, push it away, and fasten my trousers.

“Wha…”

Planting a quick kiss on his startled mouth, I brush past him and open the door.

“You!”  I shout at the man standing in the foyer.  He has taken off his hat and holds in his hands, leaving his greying hair in wispy disarray.

Mark looks behind him for the person to whom I am speaking. 

“ _You_ , you idiot.  Out!”  I sweep the finger I am pointing at him toward the door.  “How dare you try to lay a hand on my fiancé!  Now, OUT!”

“Your fiancé?  But, you said…”

My long strides carry me from the bedroom to within inches from him and, taking ahold of his arm, I propel him to the door.  He is too stunned to resist, when with my small shove to his shoulder blade, he stumbles out.

“And _stay_ away!  He is mine!” 

Nearly tripping over his feet on the way to his car, I hear him loudly mumble something that sounds like ‘nutter’.  The car door slams shut and the engine clunks to life, taking him speeding down the drive.

Closing the cottage door, I turn around to see John standing in the bedroom doorway, his arms folded across his chest, grinning.

“I hope he didn’t pay first.”

I grin in return, pulling a small wad of notes out of my pocket. 

John walks over and takes it from me.  “Two hundred quid?!  What the hell did you tell him I would do?!”

I shrug.  “I just told him you are an extraordinary lover and that he wouldn’t be disappointed.  That I have known no better.”  There was more to the conversation, but with John’s reception thus far to my gift for him, I do not want to tempt fate, or his blood pressure, by telling him; I will keep what I said between Mark and me.

“You’d better get that back to him, or else we may find ourselves on the wrong side of a jail cell.”

Pushing the money back into my pocket, John wraps his arms around me. 

“You stupid, stupid, git.  You didn’t think that one through, did you?”  John’s words are harsh, but tenderness fills his face.

I avert my eyes.  “Not until you touched me in the bedroom did I understand that it would be nothing like when you were practising medicine; it would have not have been merely an examination.  You never, _ever_ get to touch anyone else that way, even if they pay you a million pounds.”  

John chuckles.  “I don’t think that will happen any time soon.  Or ever.”  He moves until he catches my eye.  “I wouldn’t have enjoyed it, you know.  It’s our love that makes it meaningful.”

Hugging him as tight as he does me, I nuzzle into his collar. “John.  What is a blow job?”

Pulling back to look at me, he asks, “Would you like me to tell you, or show you?”

My gaze narrowing in suspicion, I wonder if this is a trick question.  What if I answer incorrectly?  “Will I like it?”

“Yes, ohhh yes.  In fact, I’ll bet you a million quid you like it.”

“But you do not have a million quid....”  Ahhh.

We walk hand-in-hand to our bedroom, my stomach churning as I think of what could have happened had John not exercised a common sense that I am just now learning I too often lack.

As I undress, John kicks his shoes off and pads over to the closet, his feet hushed on the carpeted floor.  Tiptoeing to reach a shoebox on the shelf, he takes it down.  When he opens it, I see the outline of a familiar object appear from the box.  An outline I have not seen in more than two decades.

His Sig Sauer.   

I had no idea John was still armed; I thought he disposed of the firearm when Katie was born. 'A gun has no place in a home with a child,’ John declared.   I argued with him that he could safely keep it with the proper protective equipment.  With marriage, and then impending fatherhood, I knew that when he rid himself of his weapon it was one last reason he would not be a part my life.  Our life.  But here it is, ready to serve us, just as much a natural extension of John as...as....  Searching for a suitable analogy, the one that keeps pushing itself to the forefront is… ‘me’.   
  
"You said you no longer had it in your possession," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.  Unbidden moisture stings my eyes.  
  
"I didn’t.  I hid it where no one but I would ever find it, in your flat."  He chuckles, the sound caressing my ears, as he loads his gun. "Mrs. Hudson was right, she _wasn’t_ a housekeeper.  And I knew _you_ would never find it under all those piles of paper and boxes of petrified specimens.”

My chest tightens as I realise that John had been with me in my flat all those years.  That he did not give up the one thing that could give us back the life we shared.  I never forgot those years.  And apparently neither did he. 

A sniffle escapes me and I rub the sheet corner across the bottom of my nose.  “There’s dust in the air tonight; it has been abnormally dry this month…”

John is not fooled.  Dear, clever, John.  Unaccustomed to seeing me display any of the baser emotions, John tucks the gun in the back waistband of his jeans and sits beside me on the bed, his hand cupping my face.   

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” 

“You never forgot.”  Unwilling for him to see how the sight of a seemingly insignificant inanimate object affects me, I cannot meet his eyes.

Searching my face, John understands. 

“Of course, I didn’t.  Living and working with you was one of the greatest privileges of my life; I’m just sorry it took so long for us to be together again.  But here we are and we’re never, _ever_ , going to be apart again.”

Tilting my face toward his, he kisses my mouth.  “I love you so much, Sherlock.  I don’t know how it’s possible, but it’s as if every day I love you more.” 

“I am sorry you have to see me this way, John.”  I rub at my nose one more time.

“What way?” 

“Sentimental.  I never think about age, but this seems to be an unwanted byproduct of getting older.  _Sentiment_.”  I spit out the word as if it is a virulent disease. 

John smiles.  “You’re not a machine, love.”  He winces at his choice of words, never having forgiven himself for something he later found to be thoughtless. 

“It was a long time ago, John.  Things are different now.” 

“Yes, yes they are.” 

I reach behind him and remove the gun from his back, the weight of it familiar in my hand even after all this time. 

“Why did you get it out, now?” I ask, laying it on the night table. 

“Just in case Mark comes back and tries to do something he’ll regret.  You wounded his pride, you know.” 

“Forget about him, he’s an idiot.  Now, what about this million quid blowjob?”  I mimic his eyebrow wiggle from earlier in the day. 

“Actually, you already had one last night.” 

“ _That_ was a blow job?” I protest.  “I do not recall any blowing involved; what a ridiculous name.  ‘Suck job’ would be a more precise characterization…” 

“ _You_ are ridiculous, Mr. Holmes.  Ridiculously smart, and gorgeous, and…”

I pull him with me as I lie down on the bed, my hand at the back of his head to bring him closer, capturing his mouth with mine.   

“Shut up,” I murmur against his lips. 

It is but a few moments before I break my own command. “John?” 

“I thought you didn’t want to talk.”  He props himself on an elbow so he can see my face, taking the opportunity to push a wayward curl to the side of my forehead.   

“I do not.”  I curl a leg around his and, leveraging my weight, roll him onto his back, the element of surprise working in my favor. 

John’s eyes darken as he looks up at me; his pupils dilating, blocking out the blue of his irises.   

I close my eyes to the intensity in his, unable to fathom the source of love and desire I see there.  Knowing he is right when he says I am a ridiculous man.  Knowing I have done nothing to deserve his loyalty.  His passion.  Knowing that just hours ago I compromised our relationship with what I am now aware was a contemptible act.  

“Stop it, Sherlock.” 

Opening my eyes I look at him.  His softened eyes.  The hand that reaches up to brush my face.

“Stop what?” 

“Stop thinking.  Stop…doubting.” 

“I was not thinking.  I was merely….” 

“Yes, you were.  You are right; many times I _am_ an idiot…” 

He sees me start to argue with him, but ignores me and continues. 

“...but if there is one thing I know, it is you.  You may be the smartest person in the room, you may have studied cigarette ashes and ciphers, and a thousand other subjects that may or may not come in handy one day, but there is one thing you haven’t studied.  And that is _you._ ”

His hand resting on my nape now, his thumb plays with the hair tickling the top of my neck. 

“And while you have been out saving the world from diabolical murderers, I _have_ been studying you.  This is going to shatter your self-image, but to anyone who pays attention, and I have, uh,” he clears his throat, “been paying very close attention, you are remarkably easy to read.  So know this.”

The crinkles at the edges of John’s eyes become more pronounced as his eyes bore into mine.  

“You are wrong.  You deserve every bit of love I feel for you.  You don’t have to earn it, Sherlock; you just have to be you.  You are the most amazing person I have ever met and _I_ am the one who is lucky to be with _you._   Please, just believe that, okay?” 

This is the most words I have ever heard come out of John’s mouth at any one time and for once I do not know what to say. 

Seeing me hesitate, “Think about it okay?  And while you think about it, just let me love you, whether you think you deserve it or not.  Getting to love you makes me so, so happy.  God help me, I’ve had to hold it in for far too long.” 

My arms tiring from holding myself up, I flop onto the bed, lying to face John.  Pushing the billowing pillow down so I can see his face, he turns over so he can see me, too.  We lie here, taking each other in.  For how long I do not know; all I know is I can do this forever.  I will never tire of watching John Watson. 

A long time later, I break the silence.  “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”  It has been so long since we have spoken he has forgotten he asked me a question. 

“Okay, I will let you love me in whatever way you see appropriate.  It is not for me to say if you are misguided in your affections.”  I stroke my fingers through the hair around his ear, grateful beyond measure to be able to touch him.  To love him.   

“I want to make you happy and if loving me makes you happy, then I guess it is a cross I will have to bear.”  I sigh as if it is a great sacrifice for me.  

A smile widens John’s face.  “Well, thank you my liege,” he says, bowing as best as one can whilst lying down in bed. 

Growing serious again, I tell him, “I _will_ get it right, John.  I _will_ stop doubting you…us.  I do not want you to worry that I will fail you.” 

“I’m not worried, honey.  Sometimes it’s harder to let yourself be loved than to love.  You will get there; I have faith. It’s just going to take some practice, and if I know one thing about you, when you’re determined, nothing gets in your way. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough talking for one night.”

With that, he scoots toward me and presses his body against mine, taking me into his arms and kissing my bare shoulder.   

“John,” I breathe, shuddering at his touch.   

It will not be the last time I do so tonight.  For when I told John to ‘love me in whatever way you see appropriate’, he took it to heart.  And apparently there are _many_   ways he loves me.  I would be a fool to ever again doubt the depth of John’s love for me.   

And I am no fool.


	14. I was wrong ~ Love is NOT a chemical defect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the middle of the night John receives a phone call, and without telling Sherlock who called or why, he immediately leaves for London. Alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a little Help from my Friends...
> 
> Thank you, Burning_Up_A_Sun for your extraordinary beta-ing! And thank you for your grace and patience in allowing me to go on about the chapter without actually saying what it's about until I send it to you. I know that has to be annoying!
> 
> Thank you, Thortonsheart for answering all my little questions. Yes, English really IS my first language, just not British English!
> 
>  
> 
> And to you readers...
> 
> A big hug and a thanks! I'm not sure I would write were there no one to read the story; it's not just geniuses who need an audience. You allow me to share the love of my life, writing, and for that I am eternally grateful.

A grunt emanates from the warm body beneath me. 

“Uh, Sh-?”

“Mmmm?”  I murmur, my languidness too pervasive for my lips to form a proper ‘what’.  I sprawl over John, my body making contact with his at every point possible. 

 “I….caaan’t… breathe…” he squeaks out with obvious effort.

My brain as sluggish as the rest of me, it takes a few moments to understand what he says.  So immersed am I in my idyllic state, I do not realise I lie fully atop him, smashing him into the mattress, until he tries unsuccessfully to budge out from under me. 

I fly off of him, scrambling to the distant side of the bed that I used to call mine.

“John, are you all right?!  I have not injured you have I?!”

I rub his back briskly to ensure his blood is flowing.

Oh god oh god oh god.  I nearly suffocated John!  What if he were not awake to tell me he could not breathe?  I would wake up cold, wondering what the lump beneath me was.  John…  I cannot even think it.

Sucking in a deep breath, and then another, John is able to speak.  “Ouch!  Not so hard, okay?  Yes, I’m fine, but you can’t sleep on top of me; you’re heavier than you look, you know.”

I stop rubbing him and retreat back to the far side of the bed. Shivering from the loss of John’s body heat and the thought that I nearly sent him from this earth, I huddle under the sliver of duvet still on my side. 

“Get back over here.  You’re going to freeze.”  John stretches behind him and hooks his hand over my waist, trying to pull me toward him.

I do not move. 

“I’m fine, Sherlock.  I can breathe now.” 

In the dark I hear him take several exaggerated puffs of air to demonstrate.   “Now get that pretty arse of yours _over_ here.”

I hesitate.  Do I keep John alive by letting him breathe, or do I make him happy by moving to where he tells me, taking the risk of suffocating him?  I choose to let him live, stubbornly remaining where I lie.

His hand still on my waist, John utters the one request I can never deny him.  “Please, love?  For me?”

I groan.  Not the ‘do it for me’ ploy.  Again.   The light in my brain turns on.  Ahhh, he is clever enough to hide his cleverness.  How very...  well, you know.  Now that I am on to him, I will not underestimate him again.  But this time I will comply with what he asks.  _Just_ this one time.

I sidle back up behind him, silhouetting the curves of his body.  Tucking my knees into the crook of his, I keep my arms to myself, for I do not want to hug or lean into him too heavily.   My John-less arms suffer his absence.

He falls back asleep, the gentle rhythm of his snores threatening to pull me under.  But I resist, vowing to never again fall asleep whilst lying with him, the possible consequences too dire.

I get up and cross the room to open the curtain, his face now swathed in the moon’s glow.   Retrieving my dressing gown from the hook and three thick blankets from the closet, I wrap them around me and settle into the chair at the end of the bed, angling so I can watch him sleep, the sight of him filling me with content.

In the soft light, he looks younger.  I do not worship youth as the general population does; John is beautiful at any age.  Were it not for his silver hair I would swear he looks exactly as he did the day I met him.  The day he walked into the lab at St Bart’s…and into my life, changing it forever.  Closing my eyes, I see it as if I am there.  Unaware I was falling in love.

Lost in that other world, the younger version of me tells John I love him and can never live without him by my side.  That somehow I know he is as necessary as the air I breathe. 

I fall asleep, thinking how different life would have been had I done so…

* * *

 

Staccato chirps come from the sitting room.  At first I think I am dreaming them, but then I realise it is John’s mobile, sitting on the dining table where he left it to charge.   Disentangling myself from the pile of blankets that have somehow snarled around me, I manage to free myself and hurry after John, who rushes to answer it.

Three-thirty in the morning and his mobile is ringing.  This cannot be good.  In his hurry to answer before it goes to voicemail, he doesn’t have time to look at the screen to see who has called.   John puts the mobile to his ear, “John Watson”. 

I am relieved; it is not Katie.  He would never answer a call from her in such a way, but whatever it is the person says, it is not a relief to John. 

Switching on the nearest lamp, his eyes rebel against its brightness, and as he listens to the voice on the other end of the call, I watch him.  Watch his shoulders square, the deep breath he draws in and releases slowly through his nose as he clenches his jaw.  How he squeezes his eyes shut for the briefest of moments, bracing himself against whatever this person is telling him.  His tongue darting out of his mouth, he moistens his lips and takes another deep breath, fortifying himself.

John?  What is it?  What is hurting you?  You look so different than you did just a few hours ago, telling me you love me…with your mouth, your hands, your body.  Full of joy, as if life were perfect and never could be any other way.  As if you had everything you ever wanted.  Now you look as if your best friend has died. 

I cannot help but wonder if I am not his best friend. 

After nodding his head several times, seemingly unaware the caller cannot hear him, “You’re sure?” His eyes close again and he presses his lips together, waiting for the answer he does not want to hear.

“Yes, okay, all right; I’ll be there as soon as possible.”  John nods his head again, slowly, reluctant to make such a promise.  “She’s at… okay.  No, no, I know where that is.” (‘She’?  Who is ‘she’?) Another deep breath and he says ‘thank you’, his voice barely more than a whisper as he disconnects the call.  His arm dropping to his side, John rolls the mobile in his hand over and over, his eyes fixed somewhere on the other side of the room, looking at nothing.

I look at the face that is a shade paler than it was minutes ago.  I reach out to touch him, but unsure if that is what he wants, I instead ask, “What is going on John?  What is the matter?  Is Katie alright?” 

At first I was relieved that it was not she who called, but perhaps someone called to tell him something terrible has happened to her.  Fear knots my stomach.  If anything were to happen to Katie it would kill him.

It would kill _me._

As if he does not hear me, he sets his mobile back on the table and, scooting a chair out, sits down heavily. 

I persist.  “Is it Katie?  Is she all right?”  I can think of no one else who would affect him so deeply.

He powers on his laptop, logging onto the National Rail website, and I look over his shoulder as he books a fare to London.  One ticket.  One way.   With a departure little over an hour and a half from now. 

A chill runs through me.  What is going on?  Why is John going to London?

And why is he going alone? 

If something has happened to Katie, surely he would want me to go with him…wouldn’t he?   Does he…does he not need me? 

Reaching the payment page, “Do you mind if I…” he asks, tilting his head to me in question.  His eyes do not meet mine. 

John taps my card number in as I recite it to him, and when he finishes, he sits with his eyes fixed on the laptop.  Clearing his throat as if to gather strength, he gets up and walks outside, out to the storage room, returning with a small suitcase in hand. 

Following after him into the bedroom, I wrap my dressing gown tighter around me, hugging myself.  Protecting myself against the cool night.  Against my unease.

Putting his overnight bag on the bed, John collects toiletries from the loo and drops them in.  Shirts, pants, jeans, and a…suit (a suit?) follow.  What is he planning on dressing for?  John never wears a suit, except for the rare wedding or a funeral…  Is John going to a funeral?  If so, it is not someone I am acquainted with or I would be going, too.  Who is ‘ _she’_?  This makes no sense. 

My brow furrows as I watch him pack, putting my own clothes on in case he changes his mind and asks me to go with him. 

His fingers restlessly tapping the satchel, he pauses, unable to look at me.  “Will you drive me to Cardiff?”

“Of course, John, but why?  What is going on? Is Katie _all right_ ?”  I annoy even myself with the repetition, but I need to know.   I need to know what is troubling this man who withstands the harshest life has to offer him with unwavering strength. 

Almost absent-mindedly, he answers me, lifting a hand to ruffle it through his hair.  “Katie?  Yeh, Katie’s fine.” 

I move next to him, close enough to hear him breathing, close enough that should one us move we would brush against each other.  (You look so sad, John; what do you need?  How can I make you feel better?)  For once, being the smartest person does me no good; I have no idea how to comfort John.

John takes my hand in his as if to reassure me, watching as his thumb rubs the backs of my knuckles. 

I am not reassured.  Only one other time I have seen John this distraught, and it was when Mary died.   

“I…I have to go to London,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. 

“I see that, John.”  (Do not ask ‘why’ again.  Do not do not do not.)

“It has nothing to do with you, it… it’s just something I need to take care of.  Okay?”

And he finally looks up, his eyes searching mine, softly pleading for me to say ‘yes’.  My stomach goes flippity flip; this time not from happiness, but from the pain I see.  The dark depths that say whatever he needs to tend to, it must be alone.

I fight the urge to tell him ‘No, it is not okay.  I need you, John. I need you to need _me_.’  But I do not.  For one of the first times in my life, I realise it is not about what I want. 

I bring his hand to my mouth and kiss his palm, unwilling to tear my eyes from his.  My heart pushes against its walls, barely able to contain my love for him. 

“Anything for you, John.” 

He huffs out a small breath of air, relieved I will not fight him on this.  “Thank you, honey.” 

I meet John halfway as he reaches up to touch his lips to mine; far too soon he steps away. 

Glancing at the time as he straps on his wristwatch, he says, “If we leave now, I’ll just make my train.” 

I nod.  My throat constricted, I am unable to tell him I am scared.  Scared that he will leave and not come back.  Scared I will lose him to whatever sorrow he feels.

In his haste, John catches the zipper of his bag on a sock.  Jerking the uncooperative zipper back and forth, it does not budge. With a small curse under his breath, he leaves the small piece of sock sticking out.  Hurrying to the front door, he snatches his jacket off the hook, barely missing a step on his way. 

As we close up the cottage and walk silently to the car, my hope is that on the drive to the station he will explain to me what has happened, but he does not.  His hand settled on my thigh, John spends the entire ride looking out the window into the dark, so lost in his own thoughts he does not even reprimand for my driving. 

* * *

 

We arrive at the station and park the car, rushing inside.  Only minutes from now John’s train will depart; it is about to board.  One hand with fingers threaded through mine and the other holding his ticket, he watches the small throng of early morning commuters head up the stairs toward the platform.

“How long will you be gone?” I ask, and he turns to me.

“I don’t know.  A week?  Maybe two?  I just don’t know.”

A week?  Or _two_?  You may as well say forever, John, there is no difference.

“You…you are coming back, are you not?”  As soon as the words leave my mouth I wish I can take them back.  It is not that I doubt John’s love for me; that I will not be foolish enough to do again.  But whatever has this grip on him might be stronger.  I hold my breath, waiting for an answer.  Waiting for him to tell me everything will be all right.  Waiting for him to tell me _we_ will be all right.

I do not know whether John does not hear me or if he is distracted by his need to get on the train.  Or if he does not wish to answer me.

“I’ve gotta go.”  He lets go of my hand, tugging on the lapel of my coat and patting it back into place. 

Putting down his suitcase, I open my arms to him and he moves into their circle, his hands on my back bringing me in for a hug that is almost desperate in his need to hold me closer.  His cheek resting against mine, I cling to him as long as I can before he pulls away,

“I love you, honey,” he breathes into my ear, the softness of his voice belying the urgency of his words.   And with one more tight squeeze he releases me, bending down to pick up his satchel.

“Idi…,” I start to tell the top of his head.  No.  This is not the time to let him doubt my intent.  “I love you, John.” 

I shove my hands in my pockets, unsure what to do with them. 

“Text me when you get there?”  _Please,_ John?  Do not forget me.

With time for only a fleeting glance, John answers me with a sharp nod and turns toward the stairs, climbing up them.  He does not pause to see me stand watching after him, instead disappearing around the corner without a look back.

* * *

 

In the open doorway of the cottage, I gather my courage to go inside.  Never has the house seemed so empty.  Not before John lived here.  Not when I was so anxious (‘hysterical’ would be a more fitting word) wondering if he would return from a trip to the grocers.  Not even when he ‘moved out’ to teach me I would not stop loving him if he left.  Since living together we have not been apart for more than a few hours, and the thought of him being gone days, perhaps weeks, is incomprehensible.  It is as if I have been set adrift in a vast ocean alone, with no land in sight, experiencing a depth of solitude I never knew existed.

Everywhere I look, I see John.  The book on the footstool he never picked back up after his shower.  His brown cardigan tossed over the back of his chair, discarded in the heat of the afternoon sunlight.  The dishes sitting on the kitchen counter a reminder of our midnight snack, too tired from making love to fix a proper meal as we giggled like schoolboys, feeding each other and kissing in between bites of food.    

John…

John.

I close my eyes against the ache that fills every part of me; I miss him so much already.  Miss the man who reveals a Sherlock Holmes I never before met.  Miss the man who is everything I never knew I wanted.  Needed. 

I sternly right myself.  This will not do.  I cannot spend the whole time John is gone afraid to step into my own home. 

Hanging up my coat and scarf, I head into the kitchen to tidy it.  Wanting to be near anything that reminds of John.  A sardonic chuckle erupts from me…as if there is anything that would not.   

As I slowly sponge a soapy plate, circling it so many times it surprises me the finish does not flake off, I think how I have not washed a single dish since John moved in with me.  Not once have I vacuumed or made the bed, lifted a single finger to help with the housework.  I am ashamed.  Not only have I taken John for granted, but worse, I have treated him like chattel.  On the one or two occasions I half-heartedly asked if he would like me to help, he said he did not mind doing it himself, that he had been keeping house for so many years with just him and Katie he found it soothing.  I wanted to believe him, and so I did, ignoring the sneaking glances he cast my way to see if I would help anyway.   It was easier for me to pretend I did not see them; it gave me time to concentrate on more important things.  

More important.  How misguided I have been; _nothing_ is more important than John.

Whilst I ruminate, every few minutes I glance at my mobile where it sits just inches away from me on the counter.  Scoffing at me.  “Why would John Watson want to text you?  What have you done for _him_ lately?  You with your snits and jealousy, not to mention pimping him to someone you found online.”

‘Shut _up_!’  I yell wordlessly at my mobile.  ‘John loves me!’  But part of me knows the mobile is right.  Me, so proud of my lack of sentiment, acting thoughtlessly, hurting someone I care so much about.

I must occupy myself.  I must stop _thinking,_ about love, about feelings.  It is getting me nowhere. 

With an almost feverish intensity I throw myself into the only thing I can think of doing at the moment… I clean the cottage.  I wash every wall, dust every surface and the articles that sit on them, vacuum, scrub the loo with thick rubber gloves protecting my hands.  All the while thinking about John…John.  Wondering why he has not texted. Wondering what can be so disturbing that he dismisses all thought of me.

With everything done but the laundry, I gather up used towels, our clothing from the hamper, and approach the bed to remove the sheets.  I stand at the edge of the bed, staring at it.  Re-living the night before when we touched and laughed and told each other how much we love each other; that we will never be apart again.  Looking at the rumpled mass of bed clothes soiled from our sweat and ejaculate, I leave them where they are, unable to treat last night as if it never happened. 

Dammit John!  Why have you not texted me? 

John should have arrived in London many hours ago.  I know I can text him, but something stops me.  His reticence in telling me why he went gives me pause to intrude.  But I am worried; it has been far too long.  Even with whatever is going on with him, it is unlike him to go so long without making sure I am okay.  Without telling me he loves me.

I check my mobile as I have every few minutes all day, only to find this time that it is dead.  I plug it in, and whilst it charges, I bundle the dirty laundry into the washer.  But as I am about to turn the machine on, I am hit with such a wave of weariness I do not think I can carry on much longer.  It is after midnight and I no longer have the stamina which lets me go days without sleep.

I go back into our bedroom and pulling the sheets up, lie on top of them, using the duvet and the blankets from the chair as my cover.  As tired as I am, I cannot sleep, my mind will not stop.  No matter how I lie, arranging myself in every configuration imaginable, I cannot find a comfortable position.  But it is not the comfort of my body that eludes me; John is not here.  He is my comfort now.  I put his pillow under my head, breathing in the scent of him, but it is not enough.  This is _our_ bed, and without him in it, it is empty and useless. 

I rub my overtired eyes and, hauling the pillows and blankets with me, I go lie on the sofa.  Arranging the bedding over me, I lay my head on John’s pillow, turning my head so my nose is filled with its scent.  The other pillow I hold, imagining it is John, squeezing him tightly to me.  My mobile now charged, I have brought it with me to the sofa and I clasp it in my hand, ready for John’s text. 

The mantel clock begins its hourly ritual, and just before its fourth, and final, chime, I drift off into a fitful sleep.

* * *

 

I do not know whether it is the vibration or the sharp ping, but I awake with a start.

I lift the mobile to my face; ‘John’, it reads.  I heave a sigh of relief.  Finally.

_Arrived safely._

What?  Just now?  What took so long?  He should have arrived nearly 24 hours ago.  But with further scrutiny I see that the text was sent at 7:45…yesterday morning.  And there are no others. Why is there only one?   Did he not wonder why I did not answer?  And why does he not tell me more?

I wait for another text to come through, but this is all I get, two words that tell me next to nothing. 

My thumbs hesitate over the keys, ready to compose a response. What do I say?  I have already asked him many times what he is doing and he has not told me; I do not wish to annoy him.  And I am less than adept at mindless chatter.    

**_~~John, your text just came through.  There must have been interference~~ _ **

No, this is not what I want to say, to talk about cell phone disruptions and the sad state of UK cellular communications.

**_~~You would be so proud of me John.  I cleaned the house and~~ _ **

Still no.  I do not think he cares right now about the state of the cottage, even if he would be amazed that I have finally helped him.  What shall I say?  This is so hard, and I do not know why.  It is not as if I have trouble speaking to him any other time.  All I want him to know is that I love him and miss him and… Oh. 

**_~~I miss you.  I love you.  SH~~ _ **

No, no, no!  That is all about me!  Whilst normally this would not bother me, something tells me that is what I should not do right now. 

 _Think_ Sherlock!  What would John do?  What would _he_ say?  Think.  Think.  Hmmm. Come to think of it, he _would_ tell me he misses me, loves me; he would want me to know I am important to him.  He would know it makes me feel good.

**_I am glad you are safe, John.  Text again when you are able (this one just came through).    I love you.  I miss you.  SH_ **

I am pleased with my result.  It is short and to the point.  And now comes the hard part…waiting again.  As accomplished as I am in everything else I do, patience is not a virtue I make claim to.  Thankfully, I do not have to wait long until my phone pings.

John!

_Hi Sweetheart.  Did you sleep well?  You put plenty of blankets on so you didn’t get cold?_

My thumbs fly over the mobile as I lie to him; I do not want him to worry about me.  I want him to do what he needs to do and get back home to me as soon as possible.  Where he belongs.

**_I did.  And you’ll be happy to know I ate, too.  SH_ **

We text back and forth a few times, talking about the weather, what I had for (my imaginary) dinner.  About practically everything but what I want to talk about, what is he doing and when is he coming home.  I need you, John.

_I have to go, but I’ll text when I can.  Just don’t get worried if you don’t hear from me often._

A few minutes pass before the next text comes through and I think I have lost him.  No John, do not go. Not yet. 

_There’s a lot going on here and sometimes I have to leave my phone off. Don’t ever, EVER forget that I love you.  Got that?_

I stare at the screen, reading his message over and over.  _I love you I love you I love you._ I hear his voice as if he is right next to me.

_Sherlock?_

**_I know you love me, John.  I will not forget.  SH_ **

_Okay.  Take care of yourself until I’m there to do it.  I love you, so, so much._

Goodbye, John.

My arm flops over the side of the sofa, mobile still clutched in my hand.  John still clutched in my hand.  I close my eyes and think about him, imagining he is by my side, holding me, his breath warm on my neck. 

For how long I lie here, I do not know.  All I know is it is not long enough, because when I finally get up, John is still not home.

* * *

 

‘Enough, Sherlock.  Just…enough.’

John’s words ring in my ears.  They came after a particularly complex case about 13 years ago.  I had thought I secured every piece of evidence needed, with some to spare, ensuring the vile piece of human waste who kidnapped and murdered a councilman’s young daughter went to prison.  Forever.  The murderer got out on a technicality: ‘compromised chain of evidence’.  Compromised my foot.  The ruling was that since I was not employed by Scotland Yard, the evidence I handled could not be included in the trial, and so he went free.  Had I not let my pride get in the way and allowed Anderson to pick up the murder weapon instead of me, the child’s parents would have had at least some small measure of vengeance, instead of knowing the man who murdered their daughter was set free.

After the case was thrown out, I lay on the couch for days, filled with self-loathing.  Not showering, not eating, never leaving the flat until John had had enough and told me to stop it. 

‘Enough, Sherlock.  Just…enough.’

Laying here on the sofa for two long days, his words come back to me.  Telling me that nothing will be solved by brooding, that I need to just get up and get on with it.  Thirteen years ago it would not have undone my mistake.  Today, it will not bring John home; the house will be empty whether he is here or not and I do not want him to come home and find me this way.  I do not want to disappoint John.

Dragging myself upright, I head to the loo to freshen up.  As I shower, I think about the fact that I have not heard from John since yesterday morning.  Fighting the impulse to believe he does not care for me, that he has forgotten me.  Fighting the impulse to go to London; he would not be difficult to find. 

I have texted him, telling him I miss him, to please, please text me back.  Tell me he is alright.  But my mobile has remained silent, dark.  I worry.  Is he is safe?  What if his back hurts in the night; who will be there to massage it for him?  What if he cannot read some small print; who will read it for him?   Who is there to tell him he is loved, and hug him until he pushes them away because he cannot breathe? (But then he will smile and pull me back into his arms and smother me with little kisses until I giggle.  Sigh.  I miss you, John.)

Toweling off, I look to see if I missed a text whilst I showered.  My heart sinks; I have not.

Enough.  Just… _enough_ , Sherlock.  John loves you; you know it.  He told you he may not be able to text you often, but that you are to remember he loves you. 

And in a flash it comes to me, as vivid as anything I have ever known.  Stupid.  _Stupid._ John taught me that I will not stop loving him just because he is not here.  _John will not stop loving me because **he** is not here_.  He carries it with him wherever he goes, however far away he is.

I text him, my thumbs rushing over the keys in my excitement to share my epiphany.

**_John!  I know now!  I know that you love me ALL THE TIME, not just when you can see me or talk to me or touch me.  I love you all the time, too.  SH_ **

The surge of energy from texting my message suddenly gone, I am at a loss of what to do. 

‘John loves you ALL THE TIME’, the reminder all I need to make myself feel nominally alive again.  Not as happily as if John is here, but it strengthens me enough to get to work.

I tend to my roses until it is so dark I cannot see and go inside to fix something to eat for the first time in three days.   Seeing nothing of interest, I close the cupboard.  The refrigerator has nothing better to offer.

‘You need to eat, love.’ 

Half annoyed that John pesters me even when he is not here, I nonetheless heed his gentle command. 

A can of beans, a nibble of toast, and three case files later, my mobile pings.  John!  It is almost 1 a.m. and I had given up hope I would hear from him today.  Throwing down the file in my hands, the papers scattering across the table, I grab my mobile, almost dropping it in my haste to read his text.

_Hello, love._

**_Hello, beloved.  SH_ **

_I got your text, it was wonderful.  And yes, I DO love you all the time, I’m glad you haven’t forgotten.  I’m sorry I haven’t texted, my days are so full and I was going to text last night, but I fell asleep straight away._

**_The important thing is that you are safe.  Are you, John?  SH_ **

Before he can answer, I start texting again.

**_Is your back alright?  Is there someone to help you read?  Is there someone one there to hug you?  Not too much, that is my job.  (no kissing)  SH_ **

_If I weren’t so tired I’d ask if you’ve been drugged, you’re not usually so solicitus, no, solicitous.  But, yes, I have help if I need it, Katie’s here.  Thank you for asking, that’s very sweet of you. Weird, but sweet.  :-)  And yes, I am safe.  I just miss you.  God, I miss you._

I sit staring at the screen, not wanting to say anything.  The sooner I do the sooner he will be gone.

It does not work.

_I’m sorry love, I’m about to fall asleep.  Talk to you tomorrow night?_

I bolster myself.  ‘He loves me all the time.  Even when he is tired and does not have time to talk.  Even when he is two hours away and will not tell me what he is doing.’

**_Of course, John.  Don’t be an idiot.  SH_ **

_I love you, too.  XOXOXOXO_

Why?  _Why_ did I call him ‘idiot’?!

**_I love you, John.  SH_ **

I miss you, John.  Please, _please_ come home.  _Soon._

* * *

 

On the seventh day John is gone, instead of hearing text alert, my mobile rings, the screen displaying a picture of a smiling John.  Putting it to my ear, for several seconds, I hear nothing, unsure if we have been disconnected. 

“John?  Are you there?   Are you all right?  Talk to me, John.”

The person on the other end lets out a deep breath and clears his throat.

“Hi, love. Yes, yes I’m fine. I just…”  He lets out another deep breath, this one less shaky than the last.

He does not sound fine.  If I did not know John better I would think that he had been crying.  But John does not cry.  Even when Mary died, though clearly distraught, he maintained his composure, unwilling to upset a clinging Katie who was too young to understand that her father would not also suddenly disappear.

“John?  What is it…honey?  You ‘just’ what?”  I try not to let my panic fill my voice.

“I need you _,_ Sherlock.  I’m sorry, so sorry, I thought I could do it by myself, but I can’t.  I miss you so much and I just can’t do this without you.”

I am stunned.  John never needs me; never have I been called upon to help him through a difficult time.  Not when he silently endured Harry’s financial crisis, working extra shifts to assist her.  Not when feared he would lose his license because of a misdiagnosis which nearly cost a patient her life. Not when he had the cancer scare (Thankfully the tumor was benign, but I did not find out until months later.). 

No, John is the strong one. 

“What do you need me to do John?  How can I help you?”  My heart races as I imagine the worst, wondering if I am going to lose him to the dilemma about which he remains silent.

Blowing out a few breaths, he rights himself, sounding more like the John I have known and…loved, all these years. 

“Will you come to London?”

Hearing the doubt in his voice, I wave my hand at him and roll my eyes, annoyed with the absurd question.

“I saw that; don’t you dare flap your hand at me.”  I hear a weak smile creep into his voice and cannot help but smile myself.  I shake my head; this man never ceases to amaze me.

“Where do I go?”  I ask, already hurrying toward our bedroom to gather necessities sufficient to last me a few days away.

* * *

 

I hand my fare through the partition and climb out of the cab.

The address John gave me, while not in a posh neighborhood, is clean and well-maintained.  I climb three flights of stairs, find the number of the flat, and knock on the door.  Katie opens it, and barely taking time to open it all the way, throws her arms around me. 

Pressing her cheek against me, “I’m so glad you’re here, Uncle Sherlock; Daddy misses you so much.”

I hold her slight frame in my arms.  ‘Daddy’?  I have not heard her call John ‘Daddy’ since she was eight years old, declaring herself too grown up to use such a baby name.

Scanning the room that gets its light through the only available lamp and the open-curtained window that looks as if it has not been washed in several years, I see piles of magazines and newspapers covering almost every square centimeter of the floor except for a small path leading to the rooms beyond.  Dense cobwebs hang freely from the corners in the ceiling.  The stench from rotted food and four, no five cats, who have not had the luxury of a litter box, hangs heavily in the air; it puts the pungency of a three-old day corpse left out in the elements to shame.  I struggle not to gag. Who lives here?  And how can they bear it?

Katie lets go and I look around for a clear spot to set my overnight case.  Seeing none, I continue holding it. 

“Where is he?” I ask, looking into a face with features that tug at me.  I see so much of her father in her.

“He’s in the kitchen, cleaning up; we’ve only just been able to start today.  She died the day before yesterday, and yesterday Daddy had to make the arrangements; her burial is Friday.” 

I have no clue what the child is going on about.

“Who is ‘she’?”  I know of no living relatives of John’s apart from Katie.

“ _Nan._ ”  Clearly she thinks I am obtuse.

“Nan?  Who is Nan?”

“ _Nan,_ ” she repeats the name as if this will clarify things.

It does not.

Katie has stepped back from me and looking at me asks, “Didn’t Daddy tell you?”  She clearly thinks that since John and I live together he tells me everything.    

“Tell me what?”  I am mystified.  I have no idea who this ‘Nan’ person is; that she died, or even that she lived.  She was obviously someone important to John, so why would he not tell me why he came?

“My grandmother, Dad’s mom.”  

John’s mother?  Alive all this time? He has never mentioned her; I assumed she passed before we met and I never felt the need to bring the subject up.

As much as I want to give Katie my undivided attention, I cannot help from glancing toward the back of the flat, my eyes flicking back and forth between the girl before me and the space beyond, space that holds the person whose importance to me is beyond my comprehension.  My only thought is to see my John, hold him in arms whose muscles ache from the lack of him, feel the warm breath that will make me, once again, feel fully alive.  I am utterly besotted with the unassuming man who so gently and capably holds my heart in his hands, and I cannot bear the thought of spending one more second without him. 

My breath catches as I see him round the corner to the sitting room, and I wonder if my heart stops beating, so still is my entire being, absorbing the _completeness_ that pervades me as I set my eyes upon him.  The sense that my world has been righted when it has been so terribly, terribly wrong for this interminably long  week without him.

_John…_

I drop my bag without a thought to where it lands, not knowing if anything exists outside the two of us, and taking three long strides I stand but a breath away from him.  

I cup his face in my hands, tilting it up so I can better see him, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than usual, the eyelids that look too heavy to stay fully open.  Even in the poor lighting, I can see his unhealthy pallor.  I do not think he has slept or eaten any better than have I during our separation.  Oh, John, my love.

“Are you alright?” I ask, my voice tender. 

Nodding, John gives me a wan smile.  “Now I am.”

His eyes drifting to my mouth, I lower my lips to meet his.  I lightly touch them, tasting, savoring, knowing there is no nectar on this earth so sweet.  I close my eyes and move my lips softly against his, gently sucking at his bottom lip, the warm breaths from his parted mouth telling me telling me how very much he is affected. 

Still cupping his face, I gently kiss his cheek, his temple, his eyelids whose lashes tickle my lip, and nudging my nose into his hair, I pull him to me, my arms wrapping around his strong shoulders.  “You may never leave me behind again,” I whisper, knowing I have somehow transformed into the person I have for so long derided, mocked with the fervor of someone devoted to a lifetime’s cause.

I was wrong, so, so wrong.  Love is not a chemical defect; it is that which keeps our hearts beating. 

* * *

 

I lie facing John and watch him sleep.  Watch as his eyelids flutter, deep in some nameless dream. 

It took little to convince him to leave the cleaning until another day, his fatigue so consuming I had to help him remove his latex gloves.  Stopping for a quick meal and to pick up his things from Katie’s, we took a quiet cab ride to the hotel room, our hands molded together in such a way as to suggest they were born of the same body.

John did not want to sleep; he wanted to talk to me, to see how I _really_ was after spending the week alone.  But after a hot shower and putting on the pyjamas I laid out for him, he said he would rest his eyes for ‘just a moment’. He was asleep as soon as I draped the covers over him, not to awaken for another several hours.  His first thought when he does, is to search my eyes out and smile. 

“Hello, love,” he says, stretching to kiss me.  “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to nod off on you.” 

I cannot help but blurt out the question that has been weighing on my mind ever since Katie told me ‘Nan’ died. 

“John, why did you not tell me your mother died?”  Leaving unasked, ‘Why did you not tell me she was alive?  Why did you push me away during such a significant event in your life?’

He lies there for some time without answering, his eyes once again closed, and I wonder if he has fallen back asleep. 

But he has not.

Rolling onto his back he throws his arm above his head.  “It’s complicated, Sherlock.”

It takes him several tries before he continues, his mouth opening, then closing again.  His eyebrows pinched together.

“Mum was an alcoholic as long as I can remember; I don’t ever remember seeing her totally sober since I was a small child.  It drove Dad away, leaving Harry and me alone with her.  We would come home from school and she would be laying on the sofa, passed out, an empty bottle on the floor beside her.  Those were the easiest times.  When she was awake, she was every child’s worst nightmare.  She wasn’t physically abusive, but no one should treat a child the way she did.  It was like we were the demons she was trying to rid from inside herself.”

I am horrified; I had no idea John came from such a home.  I touch his face and he leans into it.

“When I came of age, I couldn’t get out of the house fast enough, signing up with the Army.  I tried to be a good son, I really did, Sherlock.  I called her every month like clockwork, checking to see if there was anything she needed, if she needed any money.  Of course, she did, and I sent it, even though I knew she would spend it on booze.  I always hoped one day it would be different, but it never was.  Then, when Harry went to rehab, and my mum ridiculed her own daughter who almost died for having the same problem she did, it was too much.”

John lays silent, revisiting memories I can only imagine.

“I couldn’t take it anymore.  It was her fault Harry drank, and she had no remorse, no compassion.  I stopped calling her.  Then when Katie was born, I tried to reconnect, thinking maybe Mum would finally have a reason to stop drinking.  I could almost forgive her for being a bad mum, but when she was drunk the first and only time I took Katie to see her, I couldn’t forgive her choosing alcohol over her only grandchild.  I cut off all ties.  Didn’t send her money, didn’t talk to her.  She was dead to me.  I didn’t want her to be any part of my life and I was never going to let her be near Katie again.”

“When I found out a few weeks ago she was dying, cirrhosis of the liver, of course…”  John shakes his head.  “I truly don’t know how she managed to live this long.

“So when I found out, I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.  How could I tell you that I hadn’t talked to or seen my own mother in over 20 years?  That I hadn’t had any idea where she lived or if she was even alive?  I didn’t want you to know what kind of person I truly was; that I abandoned my own mum.  What kind of son does that?  It’s eaten at me for so long, Sherlock.  Sons are supposed to love their mothers and help take care of them when they get old.  I’m sixty-two fucking years old and sometimes I feel like I’m twelve, still rebelling against a mother who was too sick to know how badly she hurt other people.  I feel ashamed, Sherlock.  That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

I look at the pain etched on his face, saddened he has had to carry this weight so long.  Alone.  Saddened to know he has so little faith in me to think that I would judge him harshly.

“John.”

“What.”

“Look at me.”

John turns his head toward me and opens his eyes; they look so unbearably weary.  It hurts me to see him this way.

“You are the kindest, wisest man I know.  I am confident you took the correct course with your mother; loyalty has limits, as it should.  You have no reason to be ashamed, especially not with me.  You say I am perfect just as I am, but you love me anyway…”

“I did _not_ say ‘anyway’.”

“No, but it was implied. The point I make is that it is the same for me with you.  There is nothing, _nothing_ , you could do that would cause me to stop loving you.”

“Thank you, honey.”

“For what?  I have done nothing.  Worse, I was not here when you needed me.”

“You _are_ here now, that’s what matters.  Besides, how could you know when I didn’t tell you?  I should have.”

“Yes, you should have told me.  Someone wise told me couples are not supposed to keep secrets; it creates a wedge between them.”

“No more secrets.”

“Never,” I agree.

I groan inside. ‘No more secrets.’  Why did I agree?! 

Debating whether to tell John what I have hidden from him, I conclude I must be brave.  Though John still has his gun, he has not shot anyone in many years…  No, I will tell him.  Besides, he loves me ‘anyway.’

“John?”

“Yeh?”

“If we are not to keep secrets, I believe there is something I should tell you.”

“Uh oh.  What did you blow up now?”

“Remember your red jumper, your favorite one…”

“Burgundy.”

“Burgandy, then.”  I scowl at him in feigned annoyance.  

“The one you said the neighbor’s dog jumped up and tore off the clothes line, running off with it?”

“I… that is not quite the way it happened.”

“I thought that sounded suspicious; the neighbors don’t _have_ a dog.  So tell me, what really happened to it?”  His fingers laze through my curls, his face softening and his body relaxing, as if the mere act of touching me soothes him.

I lick my lips.  “I, well, I… It was one of the days you went to Cardiff and I feared you were not coming back.” 

“Uh huh.  Go on.”

My next words rush out, the quicker to be over with what I have to say.  “Well, I missed you so I went into your drawer and retrieved it; I needed something of you near me…”

“That’s sweet, honey.”

“Do not interrupt me!  I went to the kitchen and struggling to put it over my head… you have a small head, John!  Something dropped to the floor and realising I had knocked over a small beaker of acid that was sat on the table, I panicked.  I did not want to anger you by burning a hole in the floor so I used what I had in my hand.”  I swallow preparing to tell him the worst of it.  “Your jumper then had a hole, a second hole, big enough for my head.”

I grimace, waiting to be chastised.  Instead, John laughs, his body shaking the mattress.  Flippity flip.

“I love you _so_ much.”  His head cushioned by his pillow, John looks at me with such love I find it hard to breathe. “Speaking of which…”

“Yes?”

“I want to get married, Sherlock.  Now.”  Reaching for my hand under the covers, he grips it, telling me how important this is to him.  “Life is so uncertain, and if something should happen to one of us….

“ _Now_?  I don’t think the registrar’s office is open.”

“Not right now, you twit.”

My heart warms at the insult; it makes me happy to know John is feeling better.  That I made him feel better.

“Soon.  Within a few weeks.  I don’t want a big wedding anyway, that is, unless you do…” 

I shake my head ‘no’, visibly shuddering at the thought.

“So, what do you think?  This is the 2nd, so by the end of the month?  If we can find someplace available, that is?”  He watches me, holding his breath for my answer, his hand gripping mine a little tighter.

John does not say it, but I see it in his eyes, ‘For me?  For _us_?’

Anything, John.  Anything.

I lift his hand to my mouth and kiss it, the only answer he needs.

Letting his breath go, the relief in John’s eyes says it is as if a huge weight is lifted off him, as if now, _now_ , he has everything he needs. 

I hope he sees in my face that I, too, have everything I need.  Everything I have ever needed but did not know it.

Worn out from a tumultuous week and talk of a past no one should have to carry with them, John’s eyes drift closed.  This time I do not lie against the back of him as we settle to go back to sleep.  This time we lay in each other’s arms chest to chest, his knee between my legs, my face resting in the crook of his neck.  Feeling our hearts beat together. 

As if it could be any other way.

 


	15. 100 lifetimes together would not be long enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Message from Sherlock:  
> "Hello, welcome to our wedding day. I am sure John would welcome you, too, were he up, but you do know how he likes his sleep. I hope he does not sleep through the day; I would look rather ridiculous marrying myself. Anyway, I am here to tell you John will be writing today's entry. I apologise in advance for inflicting his meager writing skills on you; it will regrettably be laced with much profanity, I am sure. But I do love him so and I know he will be pleased; as of late he has not had the opportunity to spend much time on his blog. Sex, you know. It is very time consuming. (No, you do NOT get to be privy to our wedding night!) I must off, now. Enjoy the wedding."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the talented Burning_Up_A_Sun for once again combing through my chapter (they're getting increasingly longer; so sorry about that!) with her keen eye and valuable insights. Love you, Sweetie!

Shit.  Bugger.  Fuck. 

Feeling a sting around the rims of my eyes, I blink a few times, trying to hold back tears.  I was doing so well all day, too.  And now here Sherlock and I are, moments away from saying our wedding vows, and I’m losing it.  _Where_ is that damn handkerchief!  Digging around in my pockets, I can’t find anything but a few coins, a wadded up gum wrapper, and the carefully folded paper that has my vows printed on it, the words that will forever tie me to this magnificent man. 

‘Dammit’, I curse to myself; I can’t wipe my nose on my sleeve. 

A white hankie appears in Sherlock’s hand and he offers it to me.

“Thank you, honey.”  I wipe my eyes and blow my nose, which is only slightly less embarrassing than dripping.

Sherlock leans close to me and whispers into my ear, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.  I mean, I will be.  Just _don’t_ be too nice to me, or I really will lose it,” I whisper back to him.  He leans back to where he was, those ungodly blue eyes piercing right through me, concerned.  

I thought I would be able to hold it together better than this; I mean after all, I didn’t shed a single tear when I married Mary.  But today?  Marrying the man I’ve been in love with for so many years?  I...I don’t have words for it.  Thank God I wrote my vows down or I don’t think I would ever get through it, hanky or no hanky.

* * *

 

**Earlier today**

Today I, _John Watson_ , am going to marry Sherlock Holmes.  Amazing!

That’s my first coherent thought as I wake up.  I shake my head and a smile fills my face; it’s about to stretch right off it, if I’m honest.  It’s beyond my ability to express the sense of anticipation I feel.  It’s like it’s the day Katie was born, the day I met Sherlock, and the day I graduated medical school, all rolled into one.  Oh, let’s top it off with the first time I kissed Sherlock, the first time we made love (Christ, what a lovely mess _that_ was!), and the day we got engaged. If you can imagine all those things put together, that’s how I feel.  Incredible, just incredible.  I sigh, unable to contain my happiness, and stretch out in the jumbled blankets. 

Speaking of my husband-to-be, where is he?  He didn’t sleep in the chair, did he? I look past the end of the bed.  If he did, he isn’t there anymore.  I don’t hear any sounds coming from the loo.  Maybe Sherlock got up and started moving around, but I don’t think so; if he doesn’t sleep in the chair he stays in bed until I get up, even if he does start squirming.  He’s such a little kid sometimes; I don’t know where he gets all his energy from.  He’s not as hyper as he used to be, but he still seems to have only two speeds: full stop and whirling dervish, even if the only thing moving is his mind.  Christ, how I love that man.

I roll over and clump the covers into my arms.  If Sherlock isn’t here to hug, this will have to do for now. 

Listening for sounds from other parts of the house, I still don’t hear him; maybe he’s in the garden doing some last minute preparations.  He said he isn’t nervous about today, but I think he’s just trying not to show it.  Like me writing this blog, narrative, whatever the heck it is, for him today.  He said he’s letting me do it as a wedding gift since I ‘have a heightened sense of romance’, and what better to romanticise than a wedding.  Personally I think it’s because he’s more emotional about getting married than he wants to admit.  He still struggles a bit with the whole ‘sentiment’ issue, thinks it makes him sound ‘soft’, or some such nonsense.

Enough lying around; I need to find Sherlock. God help me, I already miss him.  I want to wrap that lanky body in my arms and snog him until he can’t breathe. 

Padding around in bare feet, pants, and a t-shirt, I check around.  Nope, not in the loo.  Not in the sitting room or garden, either.  Where the hell is he?  It isn’t like him to stray so far from bed this early; except for the rare occasions he sleeps in the chair, I usually have to pry myself away from him.  Though I can’t say it’s an unpleasant way to wake up in the morning, having Sherlock wrapped around me like an octopus. 

Where _is_ he? 

A tightness in my chest alerts me to my fear before the thought clearly forms in my head.  Did he decide he didn’t want to get married after all?  Did he run?  I walk over to the front window.  The car is gone.  Dear Christ.

I hurry to get my mobile.  No text.  ???!  Where did he go? 

Dammit, John!  I argue with myself, telling myself I didn’t push him into this.  But I know full well he’d never had so much as a kiss before ours and now here it is only 3 months after starting his first relationship and I’m rushing him into marriage.  Fuck.  I’m a daft prick.

Don’t panic, John, everything will be okay.  Sherlock wants to get married, he said so; hell, he proposed to you.  And he’s seemed excited, but…it wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to you.  I take a deep breath and text Sherlock. 

_Morning, love.  Where are you off to, then?_

I wait impatiently for an answer on the screen.  Nothing.  Maybe he’s finally listened to me and stopped texting whilst he drives.  That’s it.  That’s why he’s not answering.

Okay, Sherlock.  It’s been at least twenty minutes and you still haven’t answered.  You’ve had plenty of time to stop or to have arrived at wherever you’re going.  Talk to me.

_Sweetheart?  Text me, okay?  I miss you and I need to know you’re ok._

Fifteen minutes that feel like fifteen hours later, I struggle with my next words,   If he _has_ run off to god knows where, too tight-lipped to tell me he doesn’t want to get married, carping at him won’t bring him back.

_Listen honey, we don’t have to get married, it’s fine, all fine.  We’ll just call the wedding off, no shame in that.  We can keep living together like we have been, you seem to enjoy that.  I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want.  Just come home. I love you, you twat._

I still don’t get an answer. 

My heart pounds.  Christ, I can live without getting married, who gives a shite.  But Sherlock, him I can’t live without.  No, don’t go there, John. He’ll come home; he has to.  He always does and there’s no reason this time should be different. 

Tea.  I need tea.  I turn the tap on, filling the kettle; it overflows as I stare out the window, hoping, _praying_ , to see our car come up the lane. 

Sherlock, honey.  You sodding git.  Where are you?! 

Finally turning the tap off after running enough water to fill the kettle at least ten times, I put the lid on and plug it in to boil.  While it heats, I hurry into the bedroom to get dressed, my mind racing through a dozen plans of action in case he doesn’t come home soon.    

Just as I pull my jeans on, I hear the front door open, then quietly shut.   Sherlock!  Tugging my jeans the rest of the way up, I’m still zipping them as I hurry out of the bedroom.

“Where the hell have you been?  I’ve been worried about you!” I'm breathing hard from worry.  From fear that he ran off and wasn’t coming back.  Okay, get a grip.  I take a deep breath, trying to calm down.  “Couldn’t you at least pick up your phone to answer my goddamn texts?”  I ask at a more reasonable volume.

“What are you talking about?”  Sherlock stands just inside the door, a grocery bag hanging from his hand, looking as innocent as you please.  That’s right, mister, pretend you didn’t ignore me. 

 “Your _mobile_ , Sherlock.  You know that thing that sends and receives communications, the thing that you use to answer me when I text you.”  Jesus, sometimes he’s so dense.  I draw in another deep breath filling myself with oxygen, hoping it goes straight to my head to clear it out; I’m not exactly proud of myself for getting angry with him on our wedding day. 

“Texts?  What texts?”  He looks genuinely confused. 

Oh.  Maybe Sherlock _didn’t_ get my texts.  Maybe he _wasn’t_ ignoring me.  It suddenly dawns on me that he is here of his own volition.  Maybe he wasn’t running away from the wedding after all.

Sherlock takes his mobile from his pocket and checks the screen.  “I did not hear them, John.  I turned the volume down earlier so it would not wake you if Mycroft texted.  We fell asleep late last night and I wanted you to get as much rest as possible.  Clearly it was not enough,” he says, cocking an eyebrow at me.

Reading my texts, Sherlock looks puzzled.   “What do you mean, ‘we don’t have to get married’?  Do you not want to?” He looks back up at me, his eyebrows pinched together.

Christ, now I’ve hurt his feelings.  Fuck. Me.  When will I get used to the idea that he actually _loves_ me.  I’d best start now, not a great way to start our married life if I don’t.

“Yes, love.  Yes, _of course_ , I do,” I rush to tell him.  “But you weren’t here and you never leave in the morning.  And we’re supposed to get married today, and I thought…well I just thought you got scared and decided you didn’t want to… you know, get married.”

Setting down the sack, Sherlock walks over to where I’m rooted to the spot, his eyes softening, a smile settling on his mouth.  I stare into his face, his beautiful, beautiful face, hypnotised, unsure how one person can make me both so happy and crazy at the same time. 

He leans down to hold me, and I reach up under his arms to his shoulders, bringing him closer.

“You can be a total idiot, you know,” he says in a hushed tone.  “I left you a note on the kitchen counter.  Did you not see it?  We ran out of sausage and I knew you would need a good breakfast this morning.”

Pulling away, Sherlock looks at me intently.  “I love you.  I am not going anywhere, not unless you come with me.”

Clapping his hands together, a delighted grin on his face, my love declares, “It is time for breakfast!” As quick as that, his thoughts are elsewhere. 

Following Sherlock into the kitchen, I sit down at the table, sipping at my cooling mug of tea. Resting my chin on my propped up hand, I listen to him chatter on as he almost dances around the room, pulling out cookware and food to fix breakfast for me.  For him, too, if I can persuade him to eat.  What he says, I have no idea; I am so filled with the sound of that obscenely rich voice and the sight of graceful movements I will never tire of, there is little room inside me for anything more.

I’ve loved him for so long that I think it still feels a bit unreal to finally be with him.  It’s hard for me to believe that after being alone for fifty-eight years, in just a quick few months he has adapted to being in a relationship.  Why I should be surprised, I don’t know; it’s not like he isn’t the most brilliant person I know.  But for all my unfaltering belief in him, it never occurred to me he could, or would, apply it to emotion or self-reflection.  After years of having no one to think of but himself, he has actually become quite thoughtful.  Definitely there have been a few bumps along the way, okay, _many_ …well, no, too many to count, but especially since my mum died he has become quite considerate of me.  He doesn’t always get it right, but just the fact that he tries shows how much I mean to him. 

I never thought I could love him more than I did even a few weeks ago, which was a hell of a lot, quite frankly, but I was wrong.  For Christ’s sake, he’s 2 metres away from me, and I miss him.  How much more pathetic can I be?

* * *

 

“Dad?”

“Yes, honey?”

Katie sits down beside me on the veranda; I have been relegated to bystander in the final wedding preparations.  Alone, Sherlock is putting the finishing touches on the garden for the ceremony, having said I ‘haven’t the sense to know a rose from a noxious weed’.  Cheeky bastard.

We’re having the ceremony at home, fortunate that though Mycroft has been retired from the government for several years, he still has the connections to secure us a special license to marry at the cottage.  Sherlock will be more comfortable here than in some stuffy hotel or other wedding venue he’s never been to before.  He said anyplace is fine, that anywhere I am is home, but I know he will be more at ease in a familiar environment.

I look at Katie, her face blessed with the smooth, dewy skin of youth; I feel my age as I sit beside her.  But I marvel that no matter how old the outside of me looks, inside I feel as young as ever.  I remember when I was young, thinking that when I got older being in love would somehow lose its intensity, that it would be comfortable and staid.  Now I know that isn’t true at all, love is love at any age. It’s thrilling and effervescent and the most exciting thing on Earth; it’s only the exterior of me that’s lost its shine. 

“Have you always loved Uncle Sherlock, you know, how you do now?” Katie asks.

Her question startles me.  Where did this come from?  Is she worried I didn’t love her mother?  That somehow her birth was a mistake?

“I loved your mother very much,” I say, taking her hand in mine.  “and _nothing_ makes me happier than being your dad.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

Frowning, I ask, “How do you mean, then?”

“Did you love Uncle Sherlock ever since you met him?  I know things were different back then, but if you could have, would you have married him?”

“Well, I…”

Katie doesn’t wait for me to find a way to answer.  “I was looking at a photobook at Nan’s flat.  It had your and mum’s wedding photos, newspaper clippings of you and Uncle Sherlock…”

I’m surprised.  I never knew my mother had photos of me after I moved out.

“…and you never looked at Mum the way you looked at Uncle Sherlock.

Oh. 

I stutter again.  “I well, I, uhm…”

“It’s okay, Dad.  I know you loved Mum, but I can’t help but wonder if you would have been happier if you had been able to be with Uncle Sherlock all this time, at least since she died.  You… _glow_ when you’re around him.  I hope someday I find someone like that.”  Katie smiles wistfully, her eyes roaming the horizon, then she settles her gaze back on me.  “Someone I can’t live without.  I know Uncle Sherlock feels that way about you, too.”

“You do?”  I know Sherlock loves me, but ‘can’t live without’ me?  That seems to stretch it a bit; Sherlock’s one of the most independent people I know.  I didn’t think he _needed_ anyone, not even me.

“I think he’s pretty private with his emotions, but when we were cleaning up Nan’s house, when you couldn’t see him he looked at you as if there were nothing more wonderful in the world, like he couldn’t believe that _he_ gets to be with _you_.  He’s absolutely gobsmacked, Dad.”

I look over to where Sherlock stands, his long, slender fingers precisely arranging rosebuds with sprigs of leaves.  The hands that held mine during my mother’s service, telling me I had done everything I could have to rectify our relationship, telling me that I had done the right thing breaking off ties with her.  The hands that caressed my skin, soothing me after long, emotional days cleaning her flat and effectively erasing a life save for the few sentimental items Katie and I each took home.  And then, as if aware I’m watching him, Sherlock turns and smiles at me, his eyes shining.  My breath catches as I smile back, wondering how someone as ordinary as me got so very, very lucky. 

“See?”

“Hmmm?”  I reluctantly drag my eyes from Sherlock’s and back to Katie. 

“ _That_ is the look of a man that says nothing in the world is more important than _you_.”

Unable to contain the bubble of happiness that’s been riding under the surface all day, I grin.  “Yeh, you know, I think maybe you’re right.”

“I _am_ right.  So what I want to ask you is if it’s okay if I ask Uncle Sherlock if I can call him something else.  ‘Uncle’ seems silly when he’s going to be your husband.  I just don’t know what.  ‘Dad’ is already taken…”

“How about ‘Papa’?”  I say without thinking.  Please don’t ask why, I plead to her silently, because I don’t think I can tell you.

Katie’s face bunches up. “That seems kind of old-fashioned.  And ‘Sherlock’ is too formal.”

Thankfully she doesn’t ask why I suggested she call him ‘Papa’. 

What Katie doesn’t remember is that when she was four years old there was brief period of time she called Sherlock ‘Papa’, just a few days, really. It was after she witnessed an innocent gesture on my part and misinterpreted it to mean Sherlock and I were a couple.

What happened was, the idiot got himself in the way of a fleeing bank robber.  Greg called me, telling me Sherlock was in hospital.  I didn’t hear much more than ‘he’s going to be alright’ as I shoved my phone into my pocket and flew out of the clinic, rushing to the hospital, needing to see for myself Sherlock was alright, ready to give him a piece of my mind.  Ready to tell him in no uncertain terms it was time to stop being so daft and to use that big brain of his for something other than putting himself in dangerous situations; he would get himself killed someday. 

When I arrived, Sherlock lay on a bed in a private room, more still and white than I’d ever seen him.  Well, except for that one horrific day years earlier.  My heart nearly stopped.  Actually, I think it did, certain I was too late to tell him to be careful.  Too late to tell him anything he could hear.   The attending physician said Sherlock had only a minor concussion and some other superficial injuries, that he would wake up soon, but I needed to find out for myself.

“I’m a doctor,” I asserted, practically grabbing the chart out of her hand, ruffling hurriedly through the pages as she walked out of the room, telling me a nurse would back in a while to check his vitals.

Scanning through the numbers and notes that told me yes, Sherlock _would_ be alright after some rest, thank fucking God, I set the chart down and moved to the side of the bed, pressing my thighs against it to steady myself.  My heart pounding, heavy breaths flaring my nostrils, I closed my eyes, trying to squeeze out the painful memory of the last time I saw him this pale…at the foot of St. Bart’s.  When I reopened my eyes, I couldn’t tear them from his face; his dark curls a captivating contradiction as they softly framed the sharpness of his features.  Eyelashes black as night feathered against translucent skin.  Without thinking, I reached out and touched him.  Traced a fine cheekbone with my fingertips, ghosting along its ridge.  With the pad of my thumb, I smoothed the full bottom lip that had so totally entranced me since the day I met him.  Trembling, I was unsure if it was from the initial shock of fearing him dead, or because of his proximity.  From being so intimate with this man with whom I had so helplessly fallen in love, knowing I would never have the chance to touch him this way again. 

I took Sherlock’s hand in mine, the slim length of it so devastatingly compliant I felt actual physical pain; I had only known his hands to be deft and sure, whether sensually coercing beautiful sound from his beloved violin or meticulously sifting through evidence almost too minute to see.  My thumb rubbing his palm in small, rhythmic circles, I leaned down to his ear and whispered, “I love you, you daft prick”, a phrase I would have to wait another agonizing lifetime to say to him again.  I paused at what I was about to do next, knowing I shouldn’t, but so overpowered by the need I really had no choice; I brushed his lips with mine.  And when I did, all the hope and longing I had ever felt for him surged through me, every nerve ending coming to life, only to slowly dissolve into sadness, knowing _we_ could never be.  Bittersweet.  That is how I remember that one lone kiss that would have to serve my memory for so many years to come.  

At that moment the door opened.  I pulled back quickly, hoping the nurse hadn’t seen, but instead, in walked Mrs. Hudson with Katie.  Shite!  I forgot I called and asked Mrs. Hudson to bring Katie here, that I wouldn’t be at home.  My entire body flushed in self-consciousness, and clearing my throat, I stood up straight, shifting my hand to Sherlock’s wrist as if taking his pulse. 

“Well, he’s doing fine, just fine,” I said.  “His pulse is strong and steady and he should be waking up any moment now.”  I didn’t know if this were true, but I felt the need to say something, _anything_ , to distract them. 

“Daddy!”  Katie ran to me and I picked her up and gave her a kiss. 

“What’s wrong with Papa?”  She looked from Sherlock to me, her eyes wide.

“Papa?”  I was confused.

She pointed at Sherlock, her chubby finger still slick from some treat Mrs. Hudson had no doubt given her despite my insistence Katie not be given too many sweets.

“That’s Uncle Sherlock.  Why are you calling him ‘Papa?’”

“’Cause that’s what Janice calls her daddy.”    

Christ! I thought.  Janice with two dads - one she calls Daddy and the other she calls Papa.  I corrected Katie, “No, he’s not your papa.  I was just checking to see how his breathing is; he’s not feeling well.” 

“You kissed him.  I saw!  That’s what Janice’s daddies do.”  To my mortification, she puckered her lips and gave me her best kissing imitation, sound effects included.

For the moment at least, I succeeded in distracting her, asking after her day with Mrs. Hudson, getting an excited account of their afternoon at the zoo.  But she didn’t forget what she saw, for days calling Sherlock ‘papa’; one time to his face. I had wanted to crawl under the table, wondering how I would explain _that_ one away, but fortunately he took no notice, too distracted catching up with the mayhem that ensued in London the few days he was out of commission.  (Sherlock has always asserted the crime rate goes up when he is off the job.  No false sense of humility for _my_ boy.)  I didn’t correct Katie, figuring if I didn’t call attention to it by fussing at her, she would lose interest. Thankfully, it worked out just that way; her fascination with the possibility of Sherlock as a second daddy blew over days later.  My secret was safe.

I am brought back to the present when Katie asks me what I’m thinking about.

“Nothing, honey.”  Remembering the question that started my reminiscence, I tell Katie, “I think it’s a lovely idea to give Sherlock a special name.  Why don’t you ask him what he might like?”

“Thanks, Dad!”  She gives me a kiss on the cheek and bounds up from her seat, off to talk to Sherlock.

I watch as Katie approaches Sherlock, talking to him as he works.  He stops what he is doing, his focus now entirely on her.  At first he looks baffled at what she is saying, but then he smiles and nods, hugging her.  I breathe out a sigh of relief.  I know he adores Katie; he has always been more demonstrably affectionate with her than with anyone else, including Mrs. Hudson, but I wasn’t sure how he would handle gaining a husband and a daughter all in one day. 

I sniff back the tickle at the bridge of my nose.  Fuck, how I’m going to get through this day without an embarrassing display of emotion, I have no idea.  I take a deep breath.  Man up, Watson.

I lift myself up from my chair and join the two people I love most in the world, along the way inhaling the fragrance of roses quickly on their way to their next full bloom.  The garden truly is lovely, a fitting setting for a momentous occasion. 

“Dad, meet Pére.” Katie says as I get close, gesturing toward Sherlock with a grand sweep of her hand.

“Who?” I’m confused.

“Pére is French for ‘father’,” Sherlock explains, beaming.

“But you aren’t French.”  If this is obvious to me, I don’t know how it escapes Sherlock’s notice.

“I like it, Dad.  Uncle Sherlock, I mean, Pére, suggested it; I think it suits him.”

“And how did you come up with that?” I ask as I look him up and down, thinking there’s no reason he couldn’t pass for a Frenchman.  Pére.  I like it.  His suit jacket is off and I tuck my hand into his pocket, needing to touch him. 

“Well, I’ve been writing up my own pail list…”

“Your what?” I ask.

“My pail list.  I modeled it after the one you told me about that first day we kissed.  The list of things I want to do.”

Oh, my _bucket_ list.  “’Bucket’ list, honey.”

“…Bucket list, and at the top of the list is ‘make love like a Frenchman’.”

I look away and cough, covering my mouth with my fist.  “Uh, Sherlock…” I start, but he continues talking.

“The French are the most renowned lovers in the world and I want only the best for you, John.”

“ _Sherlock_!  My daughter is standing right here!”  I glare at him, unable to truly be angry; like a child, he often says whatever pops into his head.  “Filter, Sherlock.”

“What?”  The expression on his face says he has no idea what I am talking about.

“What?! You and Pére have… _sex_?!” Katie gasps and her hand flies to her mouth.  “I’m scarred for life!” She says, and then giggles. “I’m calling the Daily Mail _right_ now.  Maybe they’ll even pay me for such a juicy scoop! ‘Former Consulting Detective and his Blogger, Together at Last!  Wink.  Wink.’”

“Hardy, har har,” I say drily. “Now that we have that sorted…”

“Here, John, let me show you.”  Sherlock takes several pieces of folded paper from his other pocket, doing his best to smooth out the tattered edges, and hands them to me. In his elegant hand, I read the list of things he wants to do before he dies.

 

**Pail List**

  1.      Learn to make love like a Frenchman.
  2.      Seduce John for hours until he begs for mercy.
  3.      Give John multiple orgasms.
  4.      Make John forget his name.  Mine, too. (But not so much that he thinks I am someone else.)
  5.      Make John orgasm so hard he passes out.
  6.      Have sex with John in the shower. (Replace bath mat, current one too slippery.)
  7.      Have sex with John in the garden in the moonlight. (Watch out for thorns.)
  8.      Have sex with John at 221B (in between renters, of course, and make sure Mrs. Hudson is out of town;John has yet to learn the art of quiet sex.)
  9.      Have sex with John atop Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh.



I hurry through the list, my face growing warmer with each line I read, pivoting my body to shield the words from Katie.  Not all the items are about where (or how!) to make love.  Some are about trips he knows I want to take, or things he wants to do for me, like every day tell me he loves me, or get me laser surgery so I can read unassisted (‘Not that I mind helping him.  I rather enjoy it, in fact’, he wrote in parenthesis at the end of that entry).  And then I reach the very last one on the list.  #142. Make John happy.  But ‘142’ is crossed out, to the side of it written ‘#1’. 

I turn and look up at Sherlock, my mouth hanging open, stunned.   

“I wanted to write more, but I ran out of paper.”  Sherlock peers at my face.  “Are you all right, John?  Do you not like it?  Did I miss something important?”

Whispering under my breath so low I’m not sure he hears me, “Fuck you, Sherlock.  Just, fuck.  You.”  They are the only words I can think of to say; I am overwhelmed.

I barely glance at Katie, telling her, “Sorry, honey,” before I turn and walk into the house.  I head straight to our bedroom and sit on the bed, reeling from what I just read.

It isn’t but a few moments until Sherlock follows me in, shutting the door and sitting beside me, folding his hands in his lap.  Out of the corner of my eye I see they look tense, as if he is working hard to keep them from moving. 

We must sit here for two or three minutes, neither of us saying anything.  I don’t hear Katie come inside the house; she must want to stay out of the middle of the storm she fears is taking place.  I don’t blame her.

My breathing is labored, as if I’ve been running.  Dear God, I just swore at the man I love more than life itself, something I have never done before, though I can’t say there hasn’t been a time or two he’s deserved it.  This time he did not.  Filled with guilt, I can’t look at him.  No matter the reason, there is nothing to excuse what I just said.

“I am…sorry?”  Sherlock breaks the silence, his words uncertain, not knowing what he is sorry for.

“Christ, Sherlock, _I’m_ sorry.  I shouldn’t have said that to you…and I promise never to do it again.”  I don’t add to my apology, knowing there is nothing I can say that will take back the terrible thing I just did. 

Unfolding his hands, Sherlock reaches for mine, holding on though I don’t respond; I don’t deserve his gentle gesture.

“What is wrong, John?  What did I do?”  He inquires, his voice soft.  His thumb circling my palm, I begin to relax. My breathing slows and I clasp his hand in return. 

Calmer now, I finally look at Sherlock and instead of recrimination, which is my due, or looking as if he wants to bolt, which would also be my due, he questions what he did to earn those words.   But there also seems to be…acceptance there.  As if he has already forgiven me.

“Your Pail List, honey.” 

“Obviously.”

I almost smile; he didn’t say it with an air of superiority, but because it _is_ obvious. Doy.

“It was all about me.  For me.”

“Yes...?”  Sherlock is tentative, as if he doesn’t understand what I’m trying to tell him.

“The point of a bucket…pail list, is it’s about things you want to do for _yourself_ while you still have time in life to do them.”

“Yes, I get that, John.”

My suspicion confirmed, the surge of emotion I felt earlier wells inside me again, but this time I refrain from obscenities.  As I work through how to explain to him why I said what I did, I look down at our hands, thinking how absolutely perfect they look together.  We are so very different in temperament and physicality and intellect, and yet somehow we seem to fit together perfectly.  Two parts that make a whole.

“By the time I finished reading your list, I realised you knocked down a wall and it scares the shit…sorry, out of me.  I didn’t even know I _had_ a wall.” 

I turn away from Sherlock as I talk, not because I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes, but because I’m still thinking this through.

“I’ve always thought I had everything under control.  All these years I’ve known you, even though I always loved you, it’s been from a distance.  I’ve had to keep it to myself because it was the wrong time of life or I thought you weren’t interested.  Then, when we became intimate, though I knew you were in love with me, I somehow thought my heart was still protected.  I knew, or I thought I did, that you couldn’t love the same way I do; that you didn’t feel things that way.  But when I read your list, it hit me how _real_ this is.  You really do _love_ me. No one’s ever loved me like that, Sherlock.  Like you see and know everything about me. 

“And it scares me.  Not to love you, because I couldn’t, and can’t, do anything else.  But because I…I don’t have anything to hide behind anymore.”

In that way he has of getting to the heart of things, Sherlock boils down everything I said into one simple sentence.  “So you said ‘fuck you’ because you realized I love you?”

I grimace at how ridiculous it sounds.  “Yeh, basically.  That, and something along the lines of, ‘how dare you make me love you this much’.    

Sherlock is quiet, and for once I wish I could read his mind so I have fair warning of what he is thinking.  Surely it can’t be to my benefit.

“John?”

Here it comes.  This is when he tells me he can’t love someone who speaks to him so vilely.  “Yes?”

Waiting to speak until I look at him, Sherlock’s face is void of any clue of what he’s about to say. 

Having my full attention, Sherlock forms his words with care, his lips moving in slow motion.  “Fuck.  You.”  He whispers them, just as I did. 

“Wha-?” I am startled he would use such words, and with me.  But then I see the gleam in his eyes and I start to giggle, the last of the stress washing away from me.

“Idiot.” 

This time there’s no need to guess at Sherlock’s meaning, he’s got that cute little lopsided smile thing going on.  His eyes smile, too. 

“I love you, too.  Dear fucking God, how I love you.”

“Yes, I think we have established that.  Though please, John, do try to refrain from using such vulgarity in your vows.  We do not want to offend Mycroft, his ears are delicate you know.”

The smile spreads the rest of the way across his handsome face and we both break out in giggles, like little kids trying to get one over on ‘dad’.   

His laughter subsiding, Sherlock becomes serious.  “John, I know my feelings were late in coming, but they are no less real and no less powerful than had I realised them when we met.  I am just sorry it took so long.  But there is nothing to be done about it; we will just have to make up for lost time.”

At that, I stand up, Sherlock’s hand tugs on mine, unwilling for me to leave him.  “Where are you going?”  He asks.  

“Here,” I say, as I straddle his knees, and with a hand on each of his shoulders, I push him down onto the bed.

“Ahhh, yes, fine idea, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m not just a pretty face, Mr. Holmes,” I joke. I lay down on top of him, careful not to burden him with my full weight.  We barely have time to unbutton our shirts, a task made more cumbersome with our lips locked together, when we hear Katie shout from the living room.

“Dad, Pére, everyone’s here!”

I groan as I roll off of Sherlock onto my back. “Shit.”

The sound of car doors slamming is loud enough to reach our bedroom.  It’s time.

I look over at Sherlock, his lips reddened from our too brief kiss; his mussed hair looking like it will take a week to tame.

“Are you ready?”  I ask him, giving him one last opportunity to back out.  Not knowing how I would survive if he did.

Sherlock picks up my hand and places it over his heart.  “Like you, I am already married...here.  The rest is just a formality.” 

“Okay, then, let’s do it.”  I kiss his hand and then use it to help pull him up off the bed.

Re-buttoning our shirts and carefully rearranging the evidence of our aborted attempt at a last fling in singlehood, hand-in-hand we leave the bedroom to greet our guests.  Katie, Mycroft, Greg, Molly and her third husband James, and Mrs. Hudson all gather in our small home, filling the space with laughter and love.  Well, more love, anyway.  Hugs and congratulations make the rounds, with much catching up to do for those who have not seen each other for some time. 

About an hour in, Sherlock and I head back to the bedroom.  Between giggles and kisses and private declarations of love, we change into our wedding attire.

And then we get married.

* * *

 

“I’ve got this!”

I playfully slap Sherlock’s hand away as I hook up the television in the bedroom.  He’s a whiz with electronics once they’re up and running, but he’s shite with wires and connections. 

Sherlock sulks, but in a moment he’s fine, settling into bed, impatient for me to join him.  “Get over here!”

I’m glad Katie videoed the ceremony for us. Half full of nerves and the other half filled with excitement, I remember barely a moment of it; it was all so surreal.  All I remember is Sherlock handing me the hanky, and then before I knew it Sherlock and I were hugging and kissing, our cheeks wet with emotion, and everyone was clapping.  As quick as that, the ceremony was over; we were married.

I finish plugging the video into the telly and, grabbing the remote, I climb into bed.

“Do we have to do this _now_ , John?  Are newlyweds not supposed to have sex on their wedding night?”  Sherlock rolls into me where I sit propped up beside him, possessively draping a leg over mine, kissing my neck, snaking a hand under my t-shirt.

I groan under the onslaught; he is next to impossible to resist. 

“Yes, there will be sex, and lots of it,” I promise, planting a kiss into tumbled curls.  “But first I want to watch this.  I don’t remember a thing you said and I want to hear how you declared your undying love for me and told me what an excellent choice you made in a husband.”

Sherlock nuzzles in closer.  “That is exactly what I said. Now can we get on with something more interesting?”

My answer is to hit ‘play’, and the music Sherlock recorded to play during the ceremony fills the room. 

Pouting, he sits up beside me and pulls the covers up under his arms.  “If we must.”

“Yes, we must,” I say. “No whinging.”

The camera, sat on a tripod, captures us walking to the makeshift altar, releasing Katie from where she hooked our arms in hers to go sit down.

My eyes glued to the set, I lay the remote in my lap and reach for Sherlock’s hand, clasping it between mine.

My soon-to-be husband, more handsome than any man has a right to be, is dressed in a deep blue suit with matching waistcoat, white shirt, and baby blue tie.  I am dressed the same, but on him the suit looks regal; on me it looks like I’m set to give a speech at a medical conference on birthing methods.

Even though Sherlock protested to watching the video, he is as mesmerised as I am by what takes place on the screen.

We watch as he hands me the hanky, as we exchange whispers.  I cringe when I blow my nose, chagrined this is to be a part of our permanent history.  Maybe we can edit that out.  (‘No, John, I will not hear of it,’ Sherlock will object when I bring it up to him later.  ‘Everything about you is fascinating.  Whether you’re blowing your nose or getting misty-eyed over an advert about the ways in which skyping keeps loved ones in touch.  It stays; it is non-negotiable.’  I will reluctantly acquiesce, profoundly grateful to have married a man who finds nothing about me so off-putting as to need to permanently delete it.)

On the screen, I pull my vows out of my pocket, written down so I wouldn’t fumble them. But the problem was I couldn’t read them.  I remember it wasn’t because of the tears in my eyes, but because I hadn’t used large enough print.  Sherlock pulls a small pair of reading glasses from the inside breast pocket of his suit and hands them to me.

“Did they have to be _purple_?!”  I ask the man beside me. 

“Purple is a member of the blue family; they were very complimentary to your suit, bringing out your eyes.  Now be quiet and watch.”

Listening to my voice come from the television, I forget about the glasses; I sound a lot calmer than I felt at the time. 

“Sherlock, love, you have long been my best friend, my greatest challenge, and my greatest supporter.  But most importantly, you are the love of my life and you make me happier than I ever imagined I could be.  You have made me a better person, and though you probably never knew it, you have saved my life more than once.  I am truly blessed to be a part of your life, and there is nothing I want more than to continue to be so the rest of my life.  We once spoke of regrets; my only regret is that we have but one lifetime together. A hundred lifetimes would not be enough to tell you how very much you mean to me, to show you how very much I love you.

“I give you this ring as a symbol of our marriage and a token of my love. You are my person- my love and my life, today and always.” 

Sherlock snuggles into me, wrapping an arm around my waist and laying his cheek on my chest.  My arm brings his shoulders closer, and I kiss his head, resting my cheek on it.  “I love you, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t look at me, but from the way he breaths my name, “ _John”,_ and hugs me tighter, I know he is moved.  He shifts his head so he can see the telly, lifting my t-shirt hem to rub his nose.

We watch as Sherlock speaks his vows, his hands holding mine; he has no need for a cheat sheet.  “John, I have known you for many years and, as a result of my unparalleled powers of observation, I can say with absolute authority, you are a total idiot.”

I cover my face with my hand, moaning.  “Jesus, you didn’t really say that, did you?”  How did I miss _that_?! I wonder.  Nervous haze or not, those words should have cut through the thickest fog.

Instead of answering, the love of my life who lays on me, the man who thinks I’m a total idiot, recites his vows in tandem with the man on the screen, his deep voice rumbling through my chest.

“Only a total idiot would love a man like me, one seemingly beyond redemption.  Only an idiot would forgive me a fake death, a burnt flat, and an obliviousness to love that kept us apart for far too many years.  For almost half a lifetime you have been my truest friend and, in a very real sense, partner, without ever receiving anything in return.  Kind words from me have been too few.  Instead I have taken you for granted, treated you as if it were my due to have bestowed upon me the loyalty and kindness of the most singular person I have ever had the privilege to know. 

“You once said I was the wisest man you know.  If I am, it is only because of your guidance and constancy.  You were here to teach me that ‘alone’ does not protect me. You were here to show me what love is, as you continue to do each day.  You are here to remind me that being the smartest person in the room is only accomplished by being wise enough to love _you._ For these things I will forever be grateful. 

“Whilst I cannot say I will be perfect, I can promise to, from this day forward, strive to show you every day how very much I appreciate and care for you.  I love you, John.

“I give you this ring as a symbol of my love.  Wear it with happiness and pride as I always will the one you placed on my finger.”

Sherlock reaches for my hand under the covers, kissing the platinum band he put on my finger as he finished his vows.  Looking up at me, he asks, “Why are you crying?”  A rather ridiculous question seeing as his own eyes are moist. 

Picking up a sheet corner, he dabs at my face.  When he’s done, I shimmy down from my sitting position to join him, my hand reaching for his face, my thumb stroking the contours of his face.  I kiss his soft lips once, twice, and a third time, lingering, wanting never to leave them.  But I do.  I am overwhelmed by his eloquent words, by the depth of his emotions and his willingness to share them without hesitation.  I can’t help but wonder what other depths will be revealed in the years to come, anxiously waiting to share every moment. 

“That was…” I search for some way to tell him how touched I am, knowing I fall pitifully short.  “…beautiful, sweetheart.  What in the world did I ever do to deserve you?”  I kiss him again, ignoring the fact he will not be able to answer with his lips otherwise occupied.  Besides, I know the answer, he doesn’t have to tell me; it is ‘nothing’.

“It is debatable whether one person can _deserve_ another.  I prefer to think that…”

I put a finger to his lips, waiting for them to stop moving.  Thinking what an idiot I am; I should be kissing them to shush them.  “Just answer the bloody question, _assuming_ I deserve you, and assuming there’s an answer.”

But, I should know better than to underestimate the smartest man in the room; he does have an answer.   The very same he would get were he to ask what he did to deserve me.

“What did you do to deserve me?” He repeats, his response a simple one. “Be you.”

Were we listening, we would hear coming from the telly the congratulations of our small wedding party, the pop of the champagne bottle cork as we assemble for the toast and a light dinner amid the chatter of family and friends. 

Had we eyes for anything but each other, we would see the light is still on. 

But all of this goes unnoticed; I am a man of my word.  I promised my new husband sex, lots of it.  And thinking back to one item in particular on Sherlock’s Pail List that caught my eye, I impishly ask him, “57”?

Taking but a split second, recognition dawns on Sherlock’s face.

“Why, yes!  What an excellent way to start a marriage!  I knew there was _some_ reason I wanted to marry you; it is not all about your looks, you know.”

“And I didn’t just marry you for your brain,” I smirk as my hand takes claim of his cock.

“I know.”

“Smug bastard.”

“Idiot.”

“Shut up.”

Remarkably, he does…with a little help from number 57.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though a wedding is often a logical spot to end a story, I'm not done; the dynamic of Sherlock's and John's relationship in Dear Boy is too interesting for me to stop just yet. Just thought you might want to know. :-) I see at least 5 or 6 chapters left. At least.


	16. I always wanted to be a pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go to Las Vegas for their honeymoon. Hmmm, did someone say Pirates? Drunk!Sherlock? What a patient, saintly husband John is?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bow down to the talent of my beta and friend, Burning_Up_A_Sun who has a keen eye for editing (All I can say is I lucked out finding her!) and writes a mean Parentlock! Go check it out!

My heart pounds against my rib cage.  It beats too quickly; its reassuringly steady rhythm lost to fear.  This time, I know they will kill me with their beatings. I have gone too long without giving the prison guard the information he seeks.

“John!

“Jo-o-hn!”  I cry, hoping he will hear me.  Save me.

The shouting wakes me, my labored breathing difficult to catch.  Opening bleary eyes I look around.  I am not in the Serbian prison; I have had my nightmare again.  But this time John is not here to soothe me.  Not here to calm me with murmured ‘I love you’s’, rubbing his palm up and down my sternum, taking me into his strong arms and telling me I am safe.  No, this time I awake without him, in an American jail cell, propped up against a cement wall feeling as if there were a jackhammer in my head.  The stench of the inebriated, unwashed bodies of three men in the cell assault my nose.  No, I am mistaken.  Four bodies, including mine.

I wish I had listened to John.  Listened to him when he suggested I not drink the second daiquiri (poured into a plastic cup large enough to accommodate a Jacuzzi bath for two; the neon lettering screaming ‘VIVA LAS VEGAS!’ at me).  Listened to him when he told me to ‘ _shut. up_.’, not wanting me to explain to the police officers how there came to be a dead pirate propped up against the trunk of a palm tree along the boulevard, fearing I would sound as if I were admitting to committing the crime.

No, had I listened to John I would be snuggled beside him on the second full night of our honeymoon, sated from ticking yet another entry off my Pail List. (The personal sacrifices John has had to endure in order to help me achieve my goals make me want to marry him all over again.  He says ‘It’s my pleasure’, but you and I both know how good he is at keeping a stiff upper lip.)

Instead, I sit in a jail cell in a foreign country, my husband somewhere out _there_ , likely on a flight home trying to figure out the quickest method to divorce me. 

Forty-six days of wedded bliss; I should have known being married to John was too good to last.  Just this morning, on the first full day of our honeymoon, our marriage had still looked so promising…

 

 

The room is too dark for me to see him. 

I pick up the remote off the bedside table, remembering how I earlier snorted in disdain at such a superfluous gadget, now grateful for it.  I am not forced to leave his side; even one second away from him is too long.  I press a button and listen to the whir as the drapes slide open, muted lights from the city filling the room.

So I can see my John. 

My husband.  _My_.  _Husband._   John is _mine_.  Forever.  Never has a thought made me so happy.

John lies on his back, his face tilted toward me.  When he dropped into bed almost twelve hours ago he was too tired to roll to his side as is his normal wont.  I prop my head on my hand, looking down at him.  I could stay like this for hours.  Days.  Years.  Stare endlessly at the face which fascinates me so. 

His chest gently heaves as he sleeps; his lips parted just enough to let air flow in.  And out. And in again.  I am so very tempted to kiss him, but I do not want to risk waking him; he is exhausted.  It was a long journey; it has been nearly 36 hours since we last slept in our own bed.  When we arrived, he leaned into me as I checked us into our hotel, almost too tired to stand.  I will let him sleep.

This is our first day in Las Vegas. 

“Las Vegas?  You want to go to _Las Vegas_?”  I asked John the day after we married. 

It was the beginning of our first marital fight, John’s suggestion that the vouchers Mycroft bought us as a wedding present, the ones which would take us _anywhere in the world_ , be used to travel to…Las Vegas.  Whilst it was not a heated argument, it was a point of contention for several days.

“What about Rome?  Or Tokyo?  Greece, or Hong Kong, perhaps?  These are all on your Pail List and they have culture… _history_.   But Las Vegas?  ‘Sin City’?  I am disappointed in you, John; I expected an exotic locale, someplace more…sophisticated.”  I sniffed.    The thought of bright lights, drunken tourists, and celebrity imposters, I did not find appealing.  If we wanted to see such ‘attractions’ we could go to Piccadilly Circus.

“Yes, Sherlock, Las Vegas,” John said, looking irritatingly un-irritated in my attempts to dissuade him.  “I think it would be fun.  Molly and James went last year, said it was a great lark.”

I reminded him, once again, that ‘fun’ was not the top of my agenda, ‘larks’ even less so.  To be frank, neither were _anywhere_ on my agenda.  John was not swayed.

Then, my new husband made the one statement with which I could not argue, well, at least not for long.  This time it was not ‘Please, do this for me’, but it was tantamount to the same thing.

“It’s on your list,” John said. 

“It is? It cannot be!” I mentally scanned through all 276 items on the list; I did not recall a single reference to such frivolity. Perhaps John snuck it in whilst I was not looking.  It would be like him to commit such an underhanded act; he is known for his stealth and unassuming cunning. I must keep a better eye on him.  (Speaking of sacrifices, ‘keeping a better eye on him’ is a promise I will keep for a lifetime.  Come, now, there is no need to pity me.)

“ _You_ added it to the list,” I said, my eyes narrowing at him, unsure if I were correct, but knowing he would break under such pressure should I be. 

“Nope, you did it all by yourself.  You added it last night…well, I should say this morning.”  John reddened, remembering the vigorous activities that stretched our wedding night well into the morning.  “I told you to go to sleep; you were barely coherent enough to make it to the loo and back.  But you said ‘No-o-o, it is imperative I see your pail list and add whatever I missed to mine.'  I admit I was surprised you included Las Vegas, but I’ve never pretended to understand how your mind works.”

I rushed to my laptop, the original paper list having become ragged and too cumbersome to rearrange with ease.  Pulling up the file titled ‘SH & JW 4VR’ (Shut up!  It is the first time I have been, and the last time I will be, in love and I will be as gooey and goopy as I please, using any abominations to the English language I choose.  Besides, you would be gooey and goopy, too, if you were in love with John Watson.  Now, go away.), I hit ‘Control F’, key in ‘Vegas’, and there it is, number 187: ‘Take John to Las Vegas (Do _not_ take him to a male strip club.)’.  Drat. 

So here I am in Las Vegas, Nevada, United States, North America, 5217 miles from the cottage.  But I have not left home; he lies beside me.

“I love you, John,” I whisper to his sleeping form.  Despite my resolve not to wake him, I am unable to resist touching him.  Unable to resist lightly drifting down the length of his arm, his soft hairs brushing against my fingertips, down to the strong hand that brings me such exquisite pleasure; it lies on his stomach, rising and falling with each breath.  I trace the outline of each digit, niggling the wrinkles bunched on his knuckles, raking the pad of my finger on his nails, smoothing along the pronounced veins on the back of his hand, the veins through which flow his life.   My life.  Slotting my fingers in between his, carefully so as not to disturb him, I lie back down beside him, resting my head on his shoulder where his soft breaths warm my cheek. 

From here I still can see his mouth, and I think about the story he shared on our wedding day.  About rushing to hospital to see me after I was knocked unconscious by the bank robber.  About kissing me, and in doing so becoming both so happy and so sad.  Oh, John, I tell him silently, had I only known.  If only that one time you would have not been so strong and told me what was going on inside you.  If only when I woke, instead of telling me I was a ‘sodding idiot’ you would have told me you loved me.  But then, you _did_ tell me, did you not.  I know this far too late.

I reflect on my new husband’s inner strength.  His ability to conceal his deepest emotions, his greatest difficulties. He raised a child alone.  He withstood a friendship with _me,_ even taking the next step by so very bravely marrying me _._ He has suffered, in silence, deaths and unrequited love and all myriad of other troubles and challenges life has thrown at him, yet he carries himself with quiet dignity, rarely hinting at anything that bothers him.  He is still is able to love so completely.  Whilst I do not think it useful to deduce _why_ I love him, my love for him just _is_ , I think were I to do so, amongst all his qualities ~ his beauty, his intellect (Do not tell him I acknowledge this attribute; I know I would never hear the end of it.), his patience, his ability to forgive, his loyalty ~ his strength is that which draws me to him most.  It is the foundation upon which all his other virtues rest.

John stirs.  I watch as he takes a deep breath, as he exhales the last of his slumber.  His eyes open; his first desire is to look at me.  To find _me._   This is one of my favourite moments of the day. (I say it is one of my favourite moments, but this would be misleading.  In truth, every moment with John is one of my favourites- When he awakes.  When he goes to sleep.  When, without a word, he tells me he loves me just by the way he looks at me.  When he kisses me in the middle of the night, waking me, telling me he is sorry, but he _misses_ me. When he butters his toast.  When he sticks his toe through the hole in his sock and wiggles it...  My apologies for going on; I am sure you understand.)

A sleepy smile on his face, John rolls toward me, his hand finding my waist, inching the short distance across my flesh to the small of my back, resting there. 

“Morning, love.”  John’s eyes drift closed again, but the smile is still on his face, his fingers rubbing the spot where they sit at the small of my back. 

I puff up with pride; the day has not yet officially begun and I have already achieved #1 on my Pail List- Make John Happy.  I clearly am a master at any task I undertake.

“Good morning, John!  My love. My husband. The captain of my ship. My friend.  My Little Sol…” I barely start sharing the expanse of my love for him when he interrupts me.

“Mmmm hmmm.  Kiss me.”

Whilst I am on to this newest method of silencing me (It is far more expedient than ‘shut up, will you, Sherlock?’, if ‘shut up’ works at all.), I am not so unwise as to ignore a command that will bring me as much pleasure as it will my beloved.  Ahhh, I think; he did not specify _where_ to kiss him.  Or how.  Or for how long.

I am rewarded by an agreeable ‘mmmm hmmmm’ when I press my lips to John’s clavicle, tasting his sleep-warmed skin.  My tongue dotting his neck with butterfly wing-like flicks as I drag my bottom lip  toward the sensitive patch of skin under his earlobe, he takes a quavering breath, rolling his head back, giving me full access his throat…giving me permission to do as I please.  And I _do_ please.  Holding his jaw with the lightest of touches, I turn his face back toward me, nipping at the corner of his mouth until it falls open, inviting me in, his breaths escaping in long, warm puffs.  Licking softly at his lips, I dip inside, tasting the soft inner lining.

Impatient with my snail-paced seduction, I capture his lips with mine and a moan from deep inside John’s chest escapes as he pushes his hips toward me.  I answer with my own groan as he takes my hand, covering his soft penis with it, allowing me the thrill of feeling it awaken with the rest of him.  My entire being humming with love and desire, my body stirs in response.  Still in pants, I press myself up against him and, holding his thickening penis in my hand, I stroke my silk-clad groin along the naked length of it.  Up and down and back up again.  And again…and again.  It is a simple act, eliciting a far stronger response than it would seem to deserve.  John’s breathing grows heavier, his torso tensing, his mouth now too slack to hold a kiss.  My husband seems to be enjoying this.  Very much. 

His husband is, too.

* * *

 

“Uh, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”  I check my reflection in the full length mirror.  Almost ready.

We have spent all day indoors.  And when I say ‘indoors’… leaving the goose down mattress only long enough for the occasional trip to the loo or to fetch a tip for the server who brought us room service.  (‘Sherlock!  Put your _dressing gown_ on, for god’s sake!’).

“You aren’t wearing that outside, are you?” Johns asks.

Frowning, my eyes drift down the length of me.  “Why?  What is wrong with this?  I always wear a suit.”

“Well, uh…”  John grimaces and scratches the back of his neck.  Clearly there is something he does not want to tell me. 

Instead of jeans, John wears a pair of khaki shorts with his short sleeved button-up shirt, and instead of his usual loafers he wears when he goes out, he wears sandals.  (I spot the nick I inflicted on the left one, the unfortunate result of my attempts to touch his back in The Case of My Little Soldier.  It seems so long ago, and yet I still shudder at the thought of how close I came to scarring him.).  Thank God it is nighttime, or else he would be wearing that ridiculous hat he brought.  With the white sunglasses.  I love John beyond measure, but I begin to think even ‘measures’ have their limits.  Besides, I like his cardigan and jeans; they remind me of my father, a kind and gentle man.  He was much like John…except without that nasty little temper that flares up in a flash, disappearing just as quick. (I love you, John!)

“It’s not the suit, though I think you’ll regret that as well.  It’s the coat.  You don’t need the coat, honey.” John leans against the wall, his arms now folded at his chest. 

I freeze.  ( _No,_ not literally.  I have my coat on.)  My eyes meet his in the mirror; he cannot be suggesting what I think he is.  No coat?  I distinctly remember telling him, “Coat 24/7, John.”  It is not a matter of fashion; it is a matter of keeping warm.  With so little body fat, I chill easily. 

“But I will get cold, and so will you.”  I am puzzled at this unusual preoccupation with my clothing; it is not normal for him to comment on what I wear unless it is to tell me how ‘scrumptious’ I look (‘I am not a confectionary,’ John.).  I eye his bare legs and virtually bare feet.  I find his attire ill-advised, but I will happily share my coat with him should he raise goose bumps; there is more than enough room inside for the both of us.  I know this because I have made a practice of confirming my test results.  Often.

“It’s 35 degrees out.”

“What?  It cannot be; it is dark outside.”  I sweep my hand toward the window, the ‘Eiffel Tower’ lit against the dark sky outside our window.

“We’re not in Wales.  Or England for that matter.  It’s August, and it stays warmer here at night than it gets most _days_ at home.”

Pfft.  We are in the desert.  Deserts cool at night.

“I will be fine, John.  Are you sure you do not want to put something warmer on?  I do not want you to catch pneumonia.”  As much as I like the thought of sharing my coat with him, it can make it difficult to walk, bundling up together. 

John holds up a hand, resigned.  “Okay, just don’t say I didn’t warn you.  I put our passports and extra cash in the safe.  Anything else you want to add?”

“Nope.  Ready to go.”  I fasten the last button of my Belstaff and, as a precaution, stuff my scarf in my pocket.  I step to the dresser to get my gloves, but when I see John’s face contort through a series of expressions – repressed laughter, horror, pity - I throw caution to the wind and leave them where they lay; I have pockets to warm my hands if they get cold.   Better yet, I can warm them with John’s hands.

* * *

 

“I’ll wait here whilst you take it back up to the room.”  Smirky Boy is about to burst with sanctimonious glee.  Less than a minute after we leave the hotel we are back inside, with John settled in a chair near the lobby door.  Ten o’clock at night and it is still as hot as Hades out.  I refuse to tell him he was right; it is a matter of principle. 

My Belstaff now draped over my arm, I hold out my hand.  “Room card?”  I glare at him. 

John digs out his wallet and opening it, pulls out the card and places it in my palm.

“I will be back soon.  No need to look so pleased with yourself.”

“Who me?”  He tries to contain his mirth, but he is so bemused by my consternation his whole body shakes as his chuckle bubbles out of him.

“Ha, ha,” I say, glowering at him for his impertinence in laughing at me. But a smiling, laughing John flutters my heart with such joy it is difficult stay annoyed.

“I brought you some suitable clothes in case you want to reconsider the suit; they’re hanging in the closet.” 

I spin on my heel and head toward the elevators, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a response, a smile breaking out on my face as soon as I am out of sight.  

I change into a linen shirt with coordinating slacks and a pair of espadrilles and come back downstairs.  How anyone can wear such an outfit and not feel as if they are parading around naked, I have little idea; the only thing keeping me from changing back into my suit is the knowledge that it _will_ be cooler for me.

When I come back downstairs I see John watch the crowds, and at first he looks past me; I look so unlike my usual self.  But then his eyes find me, his bottom lip disappearing halfway into his mouth as he bites into it. It seems my new outfit pleases him.  He spins his finger in twirling motion, his eyes taking me in from top to bum...I mean bottom, as I slowly turn all the way around, unmindful of the hordes of people coming and going.  John has this effect on me, the ability to make me forget there is anyone else around.  Having completed the turn, when I reach his side, I hear a low whistle. 

“Some men get better looking as they get older, and some get just, well, old.  You’re very definitely in the former category.  You are _hot_ , sweetie.”

“Not as much as I was.  You…you were right, John, I _was_ wearing too…”

“No, you silly goose.  You make me want to take you back up to the room and…”

John has stood up and now leans up to my ear to whisper the rest of his ‘want’.  I blush, ruing the fact there is no coat with which to hide my stiffening penis; linen is far too light a fabric to conceal _anything_. 

“John, not here.”  I whisper back, reprimanding him, but I smile, delighted.  There are worse quandaries than driving your husband crazy with desire.

We walk back outside holding hands, the heat hitting us as if we had opened an oven door.  By the time we reach the small lake outside our hotel, we are both covered in sheens of sweat. 

John stands in front of me at the concrete banister in front of the lake as we await the next performance of the world-renowned ‘dancing’ fountain.  Pulling him into my arms, his body heat in the too warm night raises my own body temperature to an almost unbearable level; it is a torment I will gladly suffer. The strains of Rachmaninov’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini begin to pour from the speakers and I hold him closer, swaying us to the music.  At first I am riveted by the jets of water shooting high into the air as if from a cannon, dancing enchantingly in time with the music.  As rapturous as is the sight and sound around me, nothing is more rapturous than the man I hold in my arms.   John.  My John.  My lips find his jaw; it is smooth and soft, fresh from his shave.   John tilts his head back and kisses me, his lips soft and pliable, gently caressing mine as if they are making love to my mouth.  My head grows light; I am intoxicated. 

Too soon the show, and the moment, is over and John disengages himself from my arms, ready to move on.  His hand on my face I am bestowed one more kiss, a kiss telling me how very much he loves me.  I nuzzle into his neck, my lips tingling from his salty perspiration. 

“Idiot.”

“The feeling is quite mutual, sweetheart.”

A quick kiss to my nose and we are off, our fingers entwined as we slowly navigate the crowded pavement.

Passing an outdoor bar, I see a machine making crushed-ice drinks.  “John, look!  Slush puppies!  I am parched; let us go get one. They will help cool us off.”  I head toward the bar, a veritable oasis in the desert, dragging him behind me.

“Sherlock, those aren’t slush puppies, not unless you spell them d-a-i-q-u-i-r-i.”

“What?”  I do not know what this strange word is.

“Daiquiri.  It’s a rum-based drink.”

“Well, we shall buy daiquiris, then.”  I watch the machine spin the crushed ice around and around, every spin making me thirstier, the hot air seeming even more oppressive with relief so close.

A half mile, 37 strip club flyers (thankfully none for men’s club, John is allowed to look at no one but ME!), and one daiquiri later, I burp; my hand flying to my mouth.  How uncouth. “That was good; I want another.”

John’s eyes widen.  “Sherlock, you drank that whole thing already?!”

“I was…” burp, “thirsty John.”  I look around for another place to buy a drink; I still feel slightly parched.  My limbs are relaxed, all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes; it is not unlike just having had an orgasm.  I cannot say it is an unpleasant feeling.

“How about lemonade? That will quench your thirst.”

“No, John.  I want another one of those…rum thingies.”  I point at a sparkler-adorned plastic cup walking by.

“’Thingies’” He props up an inquisitive eyebrow up at my imprecise word.  “I think maybe one ‘thingy’ is enough for you.”

“But Jo-o-o-hn,” I whine.  “We are on our honeymoon, on holiday.  A…a…sex holiday!  That is what this is!  Are we not to have fun?  You said that is why you wanted to come here.  Another rum whatchamacallit?  Please…just one more?”  I plead, holding up two fingers.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea, honey?  I saw you drunk once and it wasn’t a pretty sight.  You got into a fight, fell asleep on the flat’s stairs.  Fell to your knees with your arse perched up in the air…”  John stops and sniggers.  “Well, maybe _that_ was pretty… But you’re a big boy; if you want another drink get another drink. All I know is I’ve had enough,” John says, throwing his cup, almost two-thirds full, into a nearby bin.

“Hey!  I could have drunk that!  Drank.  Drinked.  Whatever.”  I sway, trying to focus on him.  

“Okay, Party Boy, I’m taking you back to our room.  I definitely know you’ve had too much when you start slaughtering the English language.”

Party Boy.  Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Party Boy.  It has a nice ring to it.  I wonder if instead of wearing the deerstalker I should acquire one of those glitter hats I see a walking around.  On our way back to our room, I spy another outdoor bar; three times I have repeat my request for a drink.  My loving husband tells me it is because I keep saying ‘they carry’, instead of ‘daiquiri’, so he orders for me.  I love him so much.

“IlubyouJawn,” I slur at his face.

“I love you, too, honey; now head this way.”  John puts his hands on my waist, and walking behind me, bulldozes me through the crowd, my drink sloshing out the top of its uncovered container.

“You’re manhandling me.  Get it? Man.  Handling.”  I giggle.  “I like to be handled by my man.”  I raise my voice so he can hear me. 

“And I like handling you, just not like this, and not in public.  C’mon.” 

We walk and walk and walk, having managed to wander far from our hotel. Las Vegas is huge!  Huger than London!  And much, much brighterer.  My eyes hurt, John.

“John!  John!  A pirate! A real pirate.”  I come to an abrupt halt and John bumps into the back of me, nearly knocking me off my unstable legs.  “Look!  He must have gotten separated from his mates on the ship!  I used to want to be a pirate,” I add sadly as I look at the pirate slumped against a palm tree trunk.

“I know, honey; Mycroft told me.”

“He did?  When?”

“A long time ago.  Now come on, let’s get back to the hotel.  It’s still quite a ways.  Jesus, the Strip is long.”

“He is dead, John.”

John fingers dig into me.  “Who’s dead?  Mycroft?”

“No-o-o-o.  The pirate.”

I stare at the man dressed in traditional pirate garb, his hat askew and his legs flopped in front of him, toes pointed outward.

“He’s not dead; he’s just taking a break.  He’s probably from the ship we passed at the last hotel.  It has to be hard work being out in this heat all day and night.”  John takes a closer look at the man sitting at the foot of the palm tree.  “He looks like Captain Jack Sparrow.”

“Who?”  I am now not quite sure there are not two pirates… no, wait, there is only one.  Now there are two again.  I need to make up my mind.  I squeeze my eyes shut.  Now there are no pirates.  Better.  But my head starts to spin and I open my eyes back up, trying to focus on John. 

“Captain Jack Sparrow.  The Johnny Depp character in Pirates of the Caribbean.”

“Cap’n. You’re a Captain. Cap’n John Watson.”  I salute, my hand bumping the bridge of my nose.  It would hurt if I could feel anything, but I cannot.  “What were we talking about?  I know it was something important, but I do not know what.”

“The man sitting on the ground; you said he was dead.  He’s not, just taking a break.”  John has that look on his face I would know if I were unconscious, let alone arsed…he is losing patience.

Taking my life into my hands, I persist.  It is important he believes me, if for no other reason than to impress him with my deducive…no, detuctive…no….  Drat!  I want to hear I am AMAZING!

“But you are wrong, John; he is dead.” 

I stumble over to the pirate, swiping clumsy fingers through the small stream of dark red fluid flowing down his neck.  I touch a finger to my tongue.  Blood.

“Fuck, Sherlock!  Don’t put it in your mouth!”  Under his breath, John adds, ‘Christ.  It’s like babysitting a two year old.’  He kneels by the pirate, taking in his hand a wrist resting on the man’s knee.

“Sherlock,” John whispers loudly, looking up at me.  “He’s dead!”

“I kno-o-o-w!” 

“Shhh!”  John stands, smiling and nodding at passersby, stalling for time.  “What do we do?”  He asks me, still smiling and nodding.

I think about this.  And think.  And think.  “I know!  Call Scotland Yard!”

John rolls his eyes.  “They’re five thousand miles away; they won’t do us any good.”

“If they were across the street they would do us,” hiccup, “no good.”

“I’ll call the police.”  John pats his pockets.  “Christ, I left my mobile phone in the room.”  Digging around in my pockets, he searches for mine. 

“Hmmmm.  _That_ feels nice.”  I wriggle my hips, trying to rub my penis against his hand, frustrated by my inability to do so. 

“Not now, Sherlock…here it is.” ‘It’ is my mobile, not my penis; this development is even sadder than the dead pirate.   

John powers on the phone and stares at it.  “Fuck.  What’s the number for emergency services?”

“Nine.  Nine.  Nine,” I declare, certain there is no one else in the entire world able to provide this vital piece of information, for there is no one more brilliant than me.

“That’s the UK; it’s not going to do us any good here.” 

Oh.

“Nine-one-one,” says a young woman who stands near us. “Are you hurt?” She asks me. “I know CPR.”

John answers for me, finding a kinder way than I would to let her know a prone, conscious man is in no need of CPR.  Idiot.  “No, he’s fine, just a little pissed, but there’s another situation….”

For the girl’s benefit, I point at the ‘Captain’.  “He’s dead.  A dead pirate.  A pirate is dead.  So sad.  One less pirate in the world.  I wanted to be a pirate.”

The girl looks to where I point, peering at the man on the ground.  Her eyes widen and she lets out a piercing scream, bringing a push of people in to see what is going on.

“Look!  He's got blood on him!”  At first I think the man who shouts (Do not yell so loud; that _hurts_!) is talking about the pirate, but no, he indicates my trousers.  I look down.  Amongst the wet spots where I spilled my drink are smears of blood from where I wiped my fingers.  John will be angry. 

My brain becomes more muddled… too much noise and too many people pushing and pulling me.  John pulls me, trying to maneuver me through the crowd, telling me he is worried I will be hurt; one arm around my waist, his free hand tries to forge a path for us, but he loses his hold on me as the mob presses in to see the dead pirate.  Civic-minded meddlers push back at me, keeping me from leaving the scene of the crime. 

Panicking in my alcoholic haze, I find it hard to breathe. 

“Jo-o-ohn!”  He will take care of me; he always does.  But I cannot see him. Somewhere amidst the chaos, amidst the honking horns, music pounding from across the street, and approaching sirens, I think I hear my name, “Sherlock!”

“John!  John!”  I cry out, but this time get now answer.  I am alone.

The police have arrived. Whilst not as reassuring as John’s presence, I know they will protect me; my breathing comes easier. 

“The pirate,” I hiccup, “has been murdered and…”

Instead of raptly listening to my detailed deductions that never fail to impress, they shove me to the ground, pushing my face onto the warm, coarse pavement.  I think that is a knee in my back as my wrists are roughly shoved together; I feel the click of locking handcuffs more than I hear them.  Hauled back up to my feet, I give the officer my most imperious glare (later John will tell me I mostly just looked like I was going to ‘puke’.  I do not ‘ _puke_ ’.) 

“Ocifer, this man,” I nod toward the dead body and my head spins.  This man…” 

I puke.

Clearing my mouth the best I can without the use of my hands, I try again.

“He was murdered with an injection to his carotid artery, likely by the sea maiden now dressed as a showgirl; I can tell by the shade of eyeliner matching that of the shipmates down the block.  You will very possibly find one of her plumes is a needle laced with …”

I am told to ‘shut up’.  Not by a police officer, but by my very angry husband (‘John!  There you are!’ hiccup.) who has managed to force his way to the front of the crowd.  No doubt a few bruised, if not broken, limbs, trail behind him.

I do not shut up; it is of utmost importance I inform the officers how the unfortunate victim arrived at his current situation.  But they still do not listen as they open the door of their car and push my head down to keep me from hitting it as I half-sit, half-fall into the backseat. 

My head lolling back onto the seat, I turn so I can see out the window as the car pulls onto the street, watching the blur of faces ogling me.  One face in particular I see clearly.  The one face more important to me than any other…John’s.  But instead of looking at me with love and admiration, his eyes follow me, the expression in them unreadable.  I would much prefer to see anger or disappointment in his eyes, a _ny_ emotion would be better than what I see...

Nothing. 

* * *

 

“Honey…

“Love.”

This time, instead of dreaming of Serbia, I dream of John.  A John who still loves me.  One who whispers endearments into my ear.  I refuse to open my eyes to the harsh reality that I will once again have to lead a life alone, Johnless.  Here, in my dream at least, I see the smile I likely will never see again. The one telling me I am loved and so very, very special, and there is nothing better in the world…than me.

“Sweetheart, wake up.”

Something rubs my sternum.  A hand-shaped something.   The rubbing stops and the mattress beside me dips.  Something holds me.  A John-shaped something.  Warm, soft, lips kiss my temple; lips that murmur ‘I love you’, and kiss me again.  The arms holding me hug me tighter and a cheek rests on my head. 

I remember now; I am back at the hotel…I am with John.  Where I belong.

“You need to get up, honey, or else we’ll miss the show. You’ve been sleeping all day.”

If he is trying to persuade me to get up, he is doing a very poor job of it.  I am content where I am, never more grateful to be in his arms than at this moment.

“This is nice, John. Do we have to go?”  If possible, my body relaxes even more; I lean into him, molding myself to his body.  He makes a very fine pillow.

“Yes, we have to go.”  His words are absolute, but his tone is not; he sounds as content as me. “We paid almost 125 quid per ticket and I don’t want to waste the money.  Besides, Molly said…”

“Yes, ‘Molly said’.  I know.  But does Molly know how good you feel?  Does she know you are a far better place to rest than that horrid cell and that I need to wipe the stench of it from my mind?  Just let me lie here and smell you.”  I breathe deeply, managing to detect _him_ beneath the unfamiliar bath gel still clinging to him from a recent shower.

John chortles, bouncing my head, and the resulting ache in my brain tells me not all the aftereffects of the alcohol are gone.  “I can only _hope_ I have more to offer than the jail, or any of your cellmates for that matter.  What a nasty looking lot.”  He shivers for effect, his latter comment echoing my thoughts, though I am inclined to use the descriptors ‘Neanderthals’ and ‘dullards’. 

“You are very lucky, you know, that you were released so quickly,” John continues.  “You could have rotted away in there and I would have had to write you letters; I know how much you love my writing.”  Chuckling again, he lifts his head and tilts my chin up with his fingers so I can see his eyes.  Eyes that tell me he is not angry.  Eyes that are warm and the darkest blue, like a clear sky just before dusk. 

“You are amazing, you know that?  Absolutely fucking amazing.”

I search for some clue telling me John is mocking me, for I see nothing amazing about getting drunk and landing in jail, but he is no less exuberant in his praise of me as he has been an entire lifetime.

He must see my quizzical look for he repeats himself, adding kisses for emphasis.  “You are,” kiss, “absofuckinglutely,” kiss, “amazing.”  (Hmmm.  As fond as I am of being recognised as ‘amazing’, deservedly so 99.9% of the time, I must admit I like this improved version.  I shall endeavor to add the missing .1%. What gifts shall await me _then_?!)

“Thank God the authorities actually checked out what you told them.  If they hadn’t…I don’t even want to think about it; I was so fucking scared when they arrested you.”  Clouding over, his eyes lock them with mine.  "I can't lose you honey.  It's not even an option." 

So, _that_ is what I saw in his eyes as I was driven away by the police; not ‘nothing’, but fear.  It is an expression on him I have so little experience with I did not recognise it.  

'I never want to see you look fearful again, John; it hurts both us of too much', I tell him silently, reaching for his hand and holding it firmly in mine.   

“Anyway," John gives a quick shake of his head and brings himself back to the moment, "you were amazing!  I mean, you can deduce a crime faster than the rest of the population when you’re sober, but half-arsed…no, let’s make that _totally_ arsed, you were still incredible.  You, my dear, were a proper genius.”

I cock an eyebrow.

“Yes, I know, you _are_ a proper genius.  Always have been, always will be.  But the best part is you’re _my_ proper genius.”

I am mollified.  Brilliance should be suitably recognised.

“Whilst you were napping, I went out and bought you a present,” he says, changing the subject, a sly smile on his face.

I snap up into a sitting position.  “Present?  Why did you not say so?  What is it, John?  A microscope?  New gloves?  I do cherish my gloves, but they are getting worn and I could use a new pair.”  As he leaves the bed, my insides war, debating which is more important; do I see what he bought me or do I pull him back beside me?  I decide to have both; he will certainly bring the present to me.

“Neither,” John says, as he walks to the table where I now see a large black box sitting on the table.

“Neither?  What else could be of use to me?  I have everything I need.”

“No, you don’t.  Because it’s on your list and I know for a fact you aren’t one…yet.”

Something on my Pail List?  There is nothing on my list I want to ‘be’.  Husband, Consulting Detective, brother, Pére (!), smartest person in the room.  These are what I am and I want for nothing more.

“You are wrong, John.  There is nothing and no one I need to be other than me.  Whilst that might irritate some people, well, most people I come into contact with…”

“I agree, honey.  You are perfect exactly as you are, but this _is_ something you’ve always wanted.  And besides, it’s on your list.”  John brings my laptop to me, telling me to turn it on and open the ‘SH  & JW 4VR’ file.

Waiting for the laptop to power on, I stare with a curiosity that consumes me at the box now sitting on the bed.  “Whatever it is, you must have put it there.  How did you breach my passcode?  Not that I mind; I have nothing to hide from you.”  It is now John’s turn to cock an eyebrow.  “Ok, I do not want you to know _everything_ , but still, how did you get into my computer?”

“I’ll tell you after you open your present.”

I turn my attention to the desktop that has just appeared on the screen, and opening the file, I do not have to search, for item #2 is written in bold, capital letters: **BE A PIRATE.** (I appreciate John’s restraint in overriding the top of the list.  He said that though it is not my job to make him happy, when he saw ‘Make John Happy’ on the list every five to ten lines, he knew what appears to make _me_ happy.  And to make me happy is at the top of _his_ list.) 

I look at John, confused.  “But, I am too old to be a pirate.”  Even as I say this, I rip the ribbon off the box and lift the lid, revealing a billowing white blouse, ragged black trousers, and a tricorn hat, amongst other paraphernalia appropriate for the properly attired pirate. There is even a sword.  True, it is plastic (‘You think I would give you a _real_ sword?  Not if my life depended on it, and I assure you it would!’ my husband tells me later when I whine…I mean, thank him.), but it is a _sword!_

It is well documented that I am able go days without talking.  Alternatively, I am able to speak so fast and for so long that peoples’ eyes glaze over, nearly rendering them comatose.  But never do I recall having the intense desire to speak and not being able to do so.

Not until this moment.

My mouth and brain flounder for words as I look at John, wondering how someone could love me so much.

John sits back down on the bed, his smile tender.  “You’re not too old, honey.  You’re never too old to do, or be, anything you want; it’s only our bodies that get old, not our hearts or our dreams.  Now, here, try it on. I want to see how you look.”  He holds the blouse up to me, mentally dressing me. 

I look at the clock by the bed; it is half seven.  “But, we will miss the show.”  As much as I want to put the costume on, I do not want to disappoint John; he has been looking forward to seeing Cirque du Soleil since we booked our flight.

“I think maybe, just _maybe_ , there might be a better show here.”

What does he mean?  Wait… oh!

As I finish putting the costume on, tucking the shirt into the trousers I pause.  “By the way, how do you know what my passcode is?” 

“It was obvious…Redbeard.”  John shrugs, trying to appear modest, but I know he is pleased with himself for having fit the clues together. 

I am astonished.  Just as I have remembered every detail about John, thinking no piece of information unimportant, my husband has remembered every detail about me, even the seemingly inconsequential detail of a childhood pet’s name.

My heart filled with love and pride, (No! My eyes are _not_ moist!), I gaze upon the smartest man in the room....

My husband.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I arrived in Florida just hours before posting this. Later today (because it's well after midnight; I don't want to look to see how late) I will get to meet Burning_Up_A_Sun, what an absolutely amazing thought! AND....I get to see another Macca concert while I'm here. Woo hoo!


	17. Dreams I never knew I had

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Sentiment become good friends.

**8 Years Later**

“Sherlock!

“Sherlock, honey, wake up!  It’s time!”

Apparently I do not rouse fast enough for my husband, for he shakes my shoulder, rocking me. “Come on, honey.  This is _not_ the day for you to sleep in.”

When I open my eyes I am at first disoriented; we are not in our bed at the cottage.  At least, I pray not.  Posters of effeminate young males hang on the walls and my eyes rebel at the startling amount of purple and pink in the room.  Aaah, I remember.  We stay in Greg’s granddaughter’s room.   Gemma visits but a few times a year from where her family live in Scotland, but Mycroft’s and Greg’s home has enough space with which to provide her her own room.

Then it dawns on me…the baby.  It must be time for the baby!

“It is time? Why did you not say so?!”  I scramble from bed, still half-groggy; we could not have slept more than a few hours, taking a late train to London when Katie texted her water broke.  John called her and stayed on the phone much of the journey.  His excuse was to be available for medical guidance, but I know it was because he is an anxious grandfather-to-be.

“I _did_.” John winces as he pulls on his jeans.  “Shite, I forgot my pants.”  Rummaging through the suitcase, he pulls out a fresh pair of briefs and tugs his jeans back on, re-dressing himself.  “Katie texted and said she and Paul are on their way to hospital.” 

I flop back down on the bed, throwing my arm over my eyes.  “We have hours, then.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” John scolds, tying a shoelace.  “I don’t care if it’s days until the baby comes, god forbid; we’re going and we’re going _now_.  There’s not a chance in hell I’m going to miss the birth of our first grandson.  Now, _up._ ”

“Alright, alright.”  I would be annoyed at his persistance, but despite my apparent reluctance to leave the bed, I am just as thrilled as John to welcome the baby into the world. 

Dressed and on our way downstairs, I make a mental note to tell Mycroft we need ground floor accommodations; John has developed arthritis in his left knee.  It is minor, but I see the discomfort on his face that navigating the stairs causes him.  I stay in step in the event he needs assistance. 

We make a quick stop at the kitchen to fix John toast.  Hungry husband equals grumpy husband, and I will already have to practice patience given his lack of sleep.  No sense compounding the problem.

“Ahhh, up so early?”  Mycroft is sat at the kitchen table, cup of tea in hand as he scans the Parliament website on the laptop in front of him.  Even though he has long been a pensioner, he likes to keep up with the Hansards.

A few years ago I would have had at ready a scathing retort, certain he was deriding my sleeping habits; he never approved of my nocturnal lifestyle in the days I stayed up all night and napped the days away, but I now know it is not his intent. Mycroft has mellowed through the years, less inclined to assert his superiority.  I have no doubt it has much to do with his relationship with Lestrade (“He does have a first name, you know,” John often chides.), a stable, loving relationship has that effect on one.  I smile to myself, happy to have first-hand knowledge.

“Katie is in labour and we’re on our way to hospital.  Just fixing a bite to eat for John first.”   I make myself at home, popping bread into the toaster.

“How very excited you must be, John.  Congratulations!”  Mycroft beams as if the impending arrival is his own progeny.

Looking up from the kettle he has set to boil, “Yes.  Yes, we are very happy about it.”  John reaches for my hand.

“Wonderful!  Nothing better than having a little one around, except for, well…” Mycroft smiles and holds his hand out to Greg, who is sat by him at the table.

“Yeh, I’ll agree with that.” Greg grins, glancing up from his tablet in greeting as he takes the proffered hand .    

“I’ll call our driver.”  Mycroft takes his mobile from the table and tapping it a few times, gives instructions to the man on the other end.  I nod my head in thanks.

Minutes later, toast and tea in hand, John and I slide into the back seat of the limo, on our way to become grandparents.  As proud as I feel, I can only imagine how much more so John does.  

On the ride to hospital, as I often am, I am struck with a sense of wonder at where my life has taken me.  Married a little over 8 years now, it as if there were never a time there was not an ‘us’, a time when I was not madly in love with John Watson.  And he with me. 

As happy as I have been, I do not know why I expected our marriage to be significantly smoother than our friendship, at least in the early years.  After all, our 25 years of friendship before we married were frequently punctuated with raised voices (Mostly from John.  No, always from John.), bickering, and bouts of silence (Mostly by me.  Mmmm, no.  Always by me.).  In fact, there have been moments where I feared we might not make it.  Even now my heart clenches at the mere idea; the thought of losing John is beyond all comprehension. 

The most serious incident came just a few months after our honeymoon.

Back then, each morning I awoke at the same time, 3:31 a.m., to the same thought: “…show you every day how very much I appreciate and care for you”, my wedding vow to John.

On one particular morning, my chest pressed against my husband’s back and my hand on his hip, I listened to him sleep, felt the steady, gentle rhythm of his heart beating against me.  Pressing my lips to his shoulder, I pulled the sheet back up to cover him, loathe to leave his side.  But I knew I must do so else I was in danger of falling back asleep, and that I _could not_ do or I would not have kept my promise.  My promise to him I vowed to never, _ever_ fail. 

With great reluctance I removed myself from the warmth and comfort of the bed and moved to the chair, sliding it quietly to John’s side of the bed before sitting down and wrapping myself in layers of blankets.  From there I could clearly see his face, relaxed in slumber, the beauty of it inspiring me to think of ways to show him I loved him.  Doing for others had never been my area, but I had come to find doing for John came easy to me.  So easy in fact, such a plethora of ideas came to mind I often found a day was not long enough to fit them all in. 

I say it was easy to think of ways to show John I love him, but I became distracted as I observed him, budging closer to the bed to rest my palm in his where it escaped the covers.  As I sat, memorising for the hundredth time (or was it a thousandth?) the shape of his brow, the quirk of his mouth, the curve of the body that transported me to ecstasies previously unknown, I put a plan together for the day.  Finally, I removed my hand from his, able to do so only because I knew I had work to do…make him happy.

Sometimes, he was so overcome by emotion in his appreciation of all I did for him during this period that his reactions seemed more akin to anger than love, but I knew he was pleased.  (‘Sherlock!  You do _not_ need to wash the car at 5 in the morning; it’s dark and you’ll catch your death of cold! It’s November you sodding twit.”  “Sherlock!  I can clip my own bloody nails!” ~ It did not even hurt when he swatted my hands away.  “Sherlock,” John said as his chest filled with air, releasing it in a huff, “I think I’m quite capable of turning my own pages.  Been doing it for years now.”  “Sherlock, love,” he sighed heavily, “unless you’re going to join me in the bath will you please, _please_ let me undress myself?”)  I smile as I think how happy I made him.   Just as happy as he made me.  I love you, too, John.

After whipping up a breakfast casserole, I took a steaming plate of it on a tray with a mug of tea and a shop-purchased rose bud in a vase for color, booming, “Good morning, John!” 

“Huh? Uh, what?”  John blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes.

“Breakfast has arrived!” 

He eyed the clock and tried to roll away from me, groaning.  “It’s too early, Sherlock.  Be a love and let me go back to sleep.  Okay?” 

“Up and at it; you do not want the day to waste away.  It is already 5:30.”  Half asleep, John did not put up much of a struggle as I propped him up with one arm, and fluffed his pillow with the other.

After a few more grunts and groans John finally looked at the food I placed in front of him and let out a deep sigh.  “Honey, you know I love you, right?” 

I frowned at him.  Where did that question come from?  Not once have I doubted John’s love for me.  (Do not look at me like that.) 

“Yes, I know this, John.”

He nodded, appearing relieved with my answer.  “Well…I don’t want to hurt your feelings or make you feel as if I’m not totally appreciative of everything you do…

“ _Christ_ , this is good!” John mumbled through the bite of food he forked into his mouth, rolling it around in an apparent attempt to hit every last taste bud.  At least twice.  His eyes closed as he savored it.  Only when he finished swallowing did he open his eyes again and look at me.

My eyebrow raised, “I am guessing that is not what you were intending to say, since by no means does it hurts my feelings.  What is it you need to tell me?  It is not about my coat again is it?” I fully understood why he tried to save me from inflicting upon myself a heat stroke whilst we were in America, but we were home in Belstaff territory, and had been for three months.

“No, no, it’s uh, it’s actually bigger than that, honey.”  John eyes shifted between me and his food, obviously tempted to sneak in another bite.  I picked up his fork and scooping up some casserole, lifted it towards his mouth.  But instead of opening it, he glared at me.  “For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, you don’t need to feed me, too!”

“Well.  If _that_ is the way you feel about it.  I was just trying to show you how much I love you, John.  Every minute of every day; my wedding band says so.  Hmmph.”   The fork clattered as I dropped it back onto his plate.  “What is it, John?  What is bothering you?”

The love of my life grimaced and looking away.  “This might sound, well, barmy, but…”

I opened my mouth to tell him nothing he could ever do or say would be barmy (This would not be accurate, but I did not find it wise to tempt my fate by pointing out otherwise.), but I kept it shut. 

“Just say it, John,” I snapped, becoming impatient as I waited for the “but”.

“Well, I…I’m starting to feel more like a kept man than a husband, Sherlock.  I mean, you pay for everything and you’ve started doing all the cooking and cleaning.  Sometimes I feel the only time I’m useful is when, well, when we have sex.  Which I can’t help but think is laughable since I used to have trouble even getting a date; now I appear to be some kind of…some kind of sex God.”  John turned his head back to face me, no hint of humour simmering beneath his sober eyes.

Straightening my spine, I looked back at him, uncomprehending.  “A kept man?”  I asked, not liking his tone or the way he in which he was having such difficulty telling me.

“Yes.”

“Well, of _course,_ I am going to keep you, John.  You are not on loan to me, and even if you were, I would not know to whom to return you.”  How this could not be more apparent, I did not know. 

And then it surfaced.  For just a moment.  It was a pale version of its former self, but I saw a hint of John’s ‘What the _fuck’_ face. 

“What the…” he started to say.  “No, _no_.  I’m not worried you’re not going to be my husband anymore, Jesus, you idiot (‘I love you, too,’ I responded without thinking.). I’m just saying that I don’t contribute very much around here anymore.  I mean, you’ve always pretty much paid the household bills, even when we lived together in Baker Street, and I was okay with it because I did the cleaning, the cooking, the shopping, uh, yeh, pretty much everything else.”

John paused, grappling for his next words.

“But now, well, I just feel kind of… ‘useless’ isn’t a very good word, but I’m certainly not contributing very much.  I can’t believe I’m saying this, because I’m the one who always used to tell you to get up off your arse and do something around the house. But, well, there you go.”

John took a deep breath, letting it out through the ‘o’ his mouth formed, and when he was done, his lips pressed together.  Waiting.  Watching me. 

I stared at him; he looked back at me.  I stared at him some more. He was not joking. 

Yes, of course, my feelings were hurt…and John was to blame; after all I would not _have_ feelings were it not for him. 

He waved his hand in front of my unblinking eyes, “Hello-o-o.  What are you thinking?”

“I am thinking I have things to do.”   I wiped my hands on my apron, and, untying it and laying it neatly on the bed, I walked out of the bedroom. 

If I had looked at John I would have seen his mouth hanging open as he started to say something, and stopped.  I would have seen the alarm in his eyes.  But I did not look at him.

Walking straight to the front door, on my way snatching the keys off the counter and my outer garments off the coat rack, I tried not to slam it too loudly behind me as I left the cottage.

It was hours later before I came home, the packets I tossed landing with a thud atop the others lying on the counter.  In all, eighteen thick envelopes now sat there, most more than five months old.  From before we married.

“Went to the post office, then, love?  More cases from Greg?”

John was sat in his chair, wearing my favourite of his cardis, the chocolate cashmere.  The one he wore, and still wears, when wants…personal attention. 

I did not acknowledge John, or his questions, (and with great restraint, the cardi) instead throwing my coat and scarf onto the table and proceeding to our bedroom, scanning the cottage as I walked through it.  Breakfast dishes, washed and put away.  Bed, tidied with fresh sheets.  The distinct odor of disinfectant coming from the bathroom.   It seemed perhaps it was I who was not needed.

The newspaper rustled as it was set aside, followed by my husband’s soft footsteps behind me as I walked into the bedroom. My chest tightened from lack of oxygen…bedroom and chocolate cardi, a provocative blend that almost overwhelmed my senses; life had been far simpler when I only had sex with myself. 

“What do you want, John?”  I could not bear to look at him, as it was my self-control was a taut thread about to snap.

“I want to talk to you about what happened this morning.”

“What do you mean ‘What happened this morning’?  Nothing happened this morning.  I fixed you breakfast.  You complained I do too much for you…and I stopped doing anything for you.  What is there to talk about?  Oh, and by the way John, the next time you want to bemoan that your only purpose is sex, try not to seduce me.  It is not very clever of you.”

 “Uh, yeh, right.” John cleared his throat and searched through the dresser, presumably to exchange the cardi for a jumper that lacked the sexual allure of what he was wearing. 

“I see you brought some of Greg’s cases home.  You going to work on those, then?” 

I glanced at him, taking care he did not see me, and my breathing eased; he had changed into his pea green jumper. It is so very difficult to maintain one’s fowl temper when one wants to toss one’s clothes off and, as John would so eloquently put it, ‘fuck one’s husband’s brains out’.   

Looking back, I could not have been more wrong how I handled the affair, for I reverted to my pre-marital method of coping – I sulked.  For three days I did not talk to John.  Three days I did not sleep.  Three days I did not hold my husband in my arms and tell him I loved him.

And love him I did.  More than anything.  (Yes, of course I still do! Have you not been listening?)

Just as distressing as the fact that I did not speak to or touch John those three days was the fact I had broken my wedding vows;  I had vowed to every day show him how much I love him.  That I did not do, and I was ashamed.  Ashamed it took me three days to apologise and ask him what _he_ wanted me to do for him.

I was so, so stupid.  So childish.  John deserved better from me. 

I turn my head to where he sits beside me in the car, our thighs resting against one other.  “I love you.” 

He smiles at me.  “Mmmm, so glad to hear.  And what brought this on?”

“Nothing.   I do not want you to forget.”  Ever.

“I won’t forget, love.”  John reaches in for a kiss, our mouths touching lightly. 

I look back out the window, and think of other, smaller scuffles we have had.  Minor, really.  Tales we giggle over in the dark of night, huddled in bed….

Like on Bonfire Night not long after our first anniversary, when we went to Caerphilly Castle to watch the fireworks.  I am not much for such celebrations (Please forgive me, but how abysmally ridiculous a notion is it to ‘celebrate’ the failed Gunpowder Plot with explosives.  From the minds of simpletons…), but John enjoys it (No, I am _not_ calling him a simpleton.  Now, hush!  Let me tell my story.).  In need of coffee as it was a cool night, I saved our spot and admired the display whilst John paid and brought them back for us.  He must have decided against having one himself, for when he returned he rested a free hand on my buttock, grabbing it.  Smiling, I was not concerned; it was dark and with John pressed up against the back of me, his intimate action was obscured.  His flexing fingers causing a most delicious sensation in my groin, I was just about to turn around and tell John I wanted to go home, when I heard him say… 

“Get.  Your fucking _hand_. Off. My. _Husband_.” 

“What is John talking about?” I thought. 

Looking behind me, instead of John was a man whom I had never before seen; he was looking around to where the shouting came from, so I could not clearly see his face.  And standing 2 metres away was John, a coffee cup in each hand, fury written in in his eyes and on his face.  Repulsion coursed through me at the thought of a stranger’s hand groping me, but I also thrilled at the menace in John’s voice.  The man immediately scurried off, but John did not pursue him, instead turning his rage on me as he approached where I stood.

“What in the _hell_ were you thinking?  I go off to get coffee and whilst I’m gone you entertain some man with your _arse_?” 

I did not like the way he looked; only one other time did I remember seeing John so angry…when I came back from being ‘dead’ after those two long years.  Then, _maybe_ he was justified, but this particular night I think not.    

“What do you mean, ‘let’?  I thought it was you.”  My stomach churned; it was as if the print of the man’s hand was seared onto my body.

“So you thought I was just going to feel you up in public, like there aren’t thousands of eyes to watch?”

“You do it all the time, John,” I said simply.  It was a fact.

My husband’s eyes softened and he chuckled.  Flippity flip. “Yeh, I do, don’t I.  Are you alright, sweetheart?” He handed me a coffee, his palm warm when he touched my cheek.  “He didn’t put his hand anywhere else, did he?  If he did, I _will_   find him and he won’t be touching anyone again.”  The threat in his voice returned; I had had no doubt John would have hunted the man down and killed him should I have given the word.  

My breath was warm and heavy in his ear as I leaned down to him, “Let us go home, shall we?  I am feeling quite…aroused.”

“What?  That pervert touching you turned you on?”

“No, John, you do.   It is, uhm, it is quite stimulating to have you defend my honour.”

“Oh, yeh.  Uh, right.”  Tilting his face toward me in a bid for a kiss, John pressed his lips to mine and so heady was our kiss all thoughts of the miscreant flew from my head.  Had I not had the desire to put my lips elsewhere, I could have happily stayed there all night under the sparkling sky, kissing my husband.  Sigh.

We soon made it home and, well, let me just say the fireworks at the castle were tame in comparison to those which later took place in our bedroom.

And then there was the time…

John interrupts my reminisces.  It is for the best; I should focus on the more agreeable moments, and there are so, so many. 

“You’re awfully quiet, sweetie. What are you thinking about?”

Watching outside the car window as the city passes us, the city I once thought my true love, I turn my gaze to smile at John.  Looking into eyes that tell me how very much I am adored, I wonder how I could have ever thought concrete and steel appealing in comparison to the flesh and blood, and heart, of the man sitting beside me.  “You.  Always you,” I respond.

John tenderly smiles in return and brings my hand to his lips, kissing it.  “Me, too.”  Setting our hands down on his thigh, his thumb rubs my palm, a gesture that never fails to makes my knees weak.   I rest my head on his shoulder and angle my face up to kiss his jaw. 

“Idiot.”

“I love you, too.”  He takes a deep breathe, “God, how I do.”

John grows quiet again, his thumb still circling my skin as his hand tightens on mine. 

“What is it, John.  What are _you_ thinking?” 

“I…I just wish Katie had her mum here.  She should have a mother with her at such an important time.  I know she says it doesn’t bother her, that I am more than enough for her, but…”

I squeeze his hand; something bothers him.  I have learned to know when he has something on his mind he has trouble sharing.  Learned that through silence, and a simple touch, he knows he can trust me to listen.

Talking to the window closest to him, John says, “I know it isn’t my fault Mary died, but I’ve always felt guilty for not providing Katie with a mother figure after she did.  Someone who could nurture her in the way only a woman can.  I feel like she’s missed out on so much because of it.”

I think of Mary, of the woman John loved enough to marry, and I wonder how much of her remains in him.  “Do you miss her?” I ask quietly. 

Somehow, I have never presented this question to him.  Am I afraid to know the answer?  Do I fear if he says ‘yes’ it will somehow diminish, in my eyes, his love for me?  Had I not been gone those two years and he had not met Mary would he have met someone else who was not destined to leave this earth so soon, extinguishing any hope of

a future for us?  But as I think these things, I know I am selfish.  Even if it were not me, I would want him to be happy, to be joined to someone who could give him companionship and a family. 

“Who?  Katie?”  John answers.  “Every day.  But it’s not unbearable because I know she has a husband who loves her; Paul is a good man.”

“No, I mean Mary.”

“Oh.” 

John looks out the window again, then down at our clasped hands, his thumb now rubbing his wedding band.

“It’s been over 20 years, but yeh, sometimes.  Sometimes Katie gets this impish grin on her face and it’s just like I’m looking at Mary.  Or I’ll hear a song from our wedding and it makes me sad.  Things like that.  I guess…I guess it’s not so much that I miss her, she’s been gone so long, but I think about her.  I think ‘what if’.  What if she had lived?  How different would my life have been?  How different would my life be now?” 

John has become almost impossible to hear, as if he is talking to himself.   I could kick myself.  I did not mean to make him sad on one of the happiest days of his life. 

“I am sorry, John.  I did not mean to…”

As if he remembers I am here, he clears his throat and turns his attention back to me, his eyes roaming the features of my face.  

“Don’t be, love.  You have nothing to be sorry for; it was an honest question.  And as awful as this sounds, had she lived, I wouldn’t have you.  And that, _that_ , my love, is difficult to think about.”

Clearing his throat again, John continues, “As I was saying, I just wish Mary were here for Katie; a father alone is not enough.  I feel like I’ve failed Katie somehow.”

It is my turn to kiss his hand.  “You could never fail anyone, John Watson; it is not in your nature.  I know, because you have never failed me.  If you would have given up on anything it should have been me.” 

“Dear fucking Christ, what did I ever do to deserve you?”  John shifts to use my chest as seatback and I wrap my arms around him, kissing his hair.

“I believe we have covered that question, many times.  Being you.”

“Yes, we have, haven’t we.  But I still don’t agree with you.  ”

“I don’t think we should be having an argument now; we are about to have a baby.  Besides, you know I will win.” 

“I let you win,” John counters, responding to the playfulness that crept into my voice.

“No, you don’t.  I win by exercising my natural cunning and superior intellect.  You could only _wish_ to be as smart as me.” 

John groans, “Oh, no, here we go again.  The Smartest Man in the Room spiel.” 

Nuzzling his neck, I say nothing.  Knowing it does not matter who wins this particular ‘argument’.  For win or lose, I still win- there is no better prize than holding John Watson in my arms.

\----------------------

As she is in many things, Katie is punctual; the baby is due to arrive almost exactly 8 hours after she texted John.   When we arrive at hospital, Paul is already in the birthing room, as are his parents, but John refuses to go in without me; only four people are allowed.  He and I would make five.

“Go, John,” I urge.  “This may be the only birth of a grandchild you will witness; I do not want you to regret missing it. 

John is firm in his answer.  “No. If you can’t go in then I won’t.”

“Stubborn old man!”  Why is he being so ridiculous?

“You should know.”  John glares at me.  “Who wouldn’t go to the British Private Detectives Conference because I had the flu?  Hmmm?  And you were the key note speaker!  You said it was canceled due to a tsunami. A tsunami?  _Really,_ Sherlock?  In Edinburgh?  You used to be a much better liar.  And besides, I watch the news, you know.”

“That was different, John.  This is more important.”

“Important is important.  As I recall, the conference was all you could talk about for months. Shite, I was about to take you to Edinburgh myself and dump you at the exhibition hall a week early just to get some peace and quiet.”

His face set, John has made up his mind and will not budge.  I will try another tactic….

Taking his hands in mine, I soften my voice, “John, you said Mary cannot be here for Katie.  But you _can_.  Be there for Katie.  This is about you and her, not you and me.”

His eyes search mine to make sure I am truly okay with this.  I am, and I can see the moment he changes his mind.  “You’re really a pain in the arse.  You know that?  Do you always have to be right?”

I smile at him.  “It was a gift I was born with; it is best you get used to it.  Now, go.  Go welcome your grandson into the world.”

“Our.  _Our_ grandson.”

“Yes, _our_ grandson.”

John takes me in his arms.  “I love you.”

Putting my hands onto his arms I firmly push him away from me, heading him in the direction of Katie’s room.  “I know. Now _go._ ”  Calling after him, “Give my love to Katie and Paul.”

It seems an eternity until John returns.  I pace the waiting room floor.  Flip sightlessly through parenting magazines.  Scroll through the internet for god knows what.  Block out the endless nattering of two old ladies, waiting for their own grandchild, who try to engage me in conversation, but I dismiss them with the wave of a hand.  Will Katie’s and Paul’s child never be born?! 

I start to worry.  Is there a complication?  Is something wrong with the baby?   Where are you, John?!

But then I see him.  My beautiful husband walks toward me grinning from ear to ear.  I hurry toward him, the distance between us quickly consumed by my long strides.  When I reach him, I put my hands on his shoulders, searching his face for anything he might be hiding.  “Is Katie alright, John?  How is the baby?”

“Everything went smoothly, thank god.  Katie is well, and the baby is perfect.  Absolutely perfect.”  John beams, his eyes alight with joy, every inch the proud new grandfather.   “Come meet him,” he says, taking my hand.

From the bed, Katie’s eyes immediately search me out as we enter the room, “Come Pére, come see little John.”  John groans under his breath, keeping it low so Katie will not hear him.  “Little John”…so many unsavory memories of bloodied noses in the schoolyard.  Some his, but more for those who taunted him.  My husband’s hand clutched in mine, I give it a light squeeze - _n_ _othing_ is little about John Watson.  (Get your mind out of the gutter.  That is _not_ what I am talking about.)

At first it is awkward, holding the baby.  I sort my memories; have I done this before?  I think not…and I do believe this is one of the most frightening things I have ever done.  Jump off buildings?  Pfft.  Stare down murderers.  Double pfft. Even kissing John the first time was comparatively painless, in part I think, because I was not fully aware of what was happening.  But hold a tiny human being?  Terrifying.  The thought flits through my mind, “what if he bites?”, but John has reassured me such a small child does not yet have the capacity. 

John helps me, assisting me to properly angle my arms so the subject, I mean the baby, is fully supported.  He tucks the blanket here and there so I can see tiny little hands and a face with a nose and ears reminiscent of John’s.  And when little John and I are sufficiently situated, I start to relax.  Then, the oddest thing happens.  My body grows warm and it is as if the room glows.  Does his presence in my arms have magical powers?  I do not believe in such things, yet I am unsure what other explanation there can be.  Looking down at the tiny scrunched up face, I am in awe.  John is right, he _is_ perfect.

“Beautiful,” John murmurs beside me. 

“Yes, he is, is he not,” I agree, barely able to get the words out.  Where did my air go?

“Yes, he is, but I’m talking about you.”

It is difficult to tear my eyes from the small bundle, but as John puts his arm around my waist, I look up into eyes filled with love and tenderness, the hint of tears making them shine even brighter.  How he can give me his attention when there is such a wondrous object in my arms, I have no idea.  But as his eyes move between me and the baby, I see wistfulness, and believe I know what he is thinking…what if _we_ had had a child.  It is an impractical thought, one far too late to act upon, but I like to believe that in some ways we did raise a child together…

After Mary died, John and Katie did not move in with me as I offered, despite the fact John could not provide me one, _one_ reasonable argument to not (Dirty looks do not count, John!).  This does not mean I did not spend an exceptional amount of time with Katie, just the two of us.  This only after John discovered she would come home from my flat with all her digits intact and not one single nightmare of severed heads, or madmen under her bed.  No, Katie would spend the occasional evening with me until John arrived home from surgery, and after growing more comfortable, he would allow her to spend whole days, often remarking on her improved vocabulary and scientific knowledge.  

When Katie was too old to need a babysitter, she would often make the choice to visit me after she finished school, or football practice, or dance class.  She said she did this not because she was lonely, but because, according to her, I was the only adult who talked to her as a person, not a child, and she could just be herself.  Through these chats I learned about her first kiss (At the time I found the thought of two saliva-slicked mouths touching each other wholly unsanitary and repulsive, but I have, uhm, changed my views.  Drastically.) and the tummy piercing that became infected (To this day John still does not know.  Do not tell him!  She is fine now.  Just fine.)

I also came to Katie’s aid when, at age 15, she became drunk at a party.   She was scared to tell her father, and even though all she wanted to do was go home and lie in her own bed, she felt she would rather ‘die’ than tell John. (Teenagers can be so dramatic!).  Katie called me for advice, and I fetched her in a cab.  She told her father she was staying the night at a friend’s house, but I tucked her safely up in John’s old room until she was sufficiently sober to go home the next afternoon, promising she would never, ever, drink again.   John’s and my friendship suffered a near fatal blow when he found out about the incident.  He said it was not only his right to know about something so serious, but it was my responsibility to tell him.  “How could you be so daft?” He yelled at me.  It took a weeks for him to calm down.  Weeks he glared at me in the hallway whenever we ran into each other (“I am sorry, John!).  Weeks he forbid Katie to see me.  But John finally forgave me, telling me he was glad his daughter had me to turn to… and then he hugged me, one of only three times he did so in the many years before moving in with me in Wales.

So as I hold little John, I am overcome by a tide of happiness.  In such a short time I have become a husband, a father, and now, a grandfather.  In my younger years never did I envision any of these roles for myself; without them what a poorer life I would have lived.

John pulls a tissue from the box by the bed and gently pats my wet cheeks, cooing to both me and the baby.  Telling us he loves us.  Giving us each a kiss. 

Many times I have said I am happier than I have ever been.  It is a ridiculous statement to make…how can one measure, and thereby compare, degrees of emotion? It cannot be done; emotions have no quantitative properties.  And yet somehow I know, amongst all the good feelings, all the happiness I have ever felt, in this moment my sense of happiness has reached a pinnacle. 

I tuck the moment into my mind palace, placing it in the room which now occupies the most space…in the room specially cordoned off for matters of the heart.

* * *

 

We arrive back at Mycroft’s happy, but tired; it has been a long day.   Mycroft and Greg have gone out, but left directions to heat the prepared food they left in the refrigerator.  Along with a note telling us we have moved rooms…to one on the ground floor. 

Thank you, Mycroft.

After we eat, I tell John I will come to bed in a few minutes; I want to look something up in the library.  I do not tell him it is old family photos…there is only so much sentiment I will admit to in one day.

Later, entering our new bedroom, it is softly lit by the bedside lamp.  John is already in bed, propped up by pillows against the headboard, reading a book.  I glance at the title, Murder in Winchester; he has never lost his love for mystery and adventure. 

“I do not know how you can indulge in such nonsense.  Dull.  I can only assume you read it to put yourself to sleep,” I tease, having long learned such tales transport him back to the time when together we solved crimes, a period we look back on fondly.  John says he would try to publish some of our adventures, but no one would believe them because no one (Me, of course!) could be that clever.

“Well, unlike you, I don’t know within the first three pages who did it, why the brother cheated on his wife, and how the murderer escaped capture for three years even though he has ‘features so distinctive that even the plastic surgeons are at a loss as how to transform him into someone who...”

Leaning down to kiss lips that are still moving, “And _that_ , my love, is why I do not read them.”  I take the book from him and, scanning the first few pages, hand it back.  “The busboy is the murderer and he hid in a flat whilst working off, off Broadway.  Claiming to be a method actor, he never revealed himself out of character, winning rave reviews for his performance.  The wife cheated first…..Oww!” John has pinched my thigh. 

“And that, _my love_ , is why I don’t tell you what the story is; I want to enjoy it without knowing the end before I even get started. Or know what a complete load of bollocks it is.”

I retreat, changing into my night clothes, a broad smile on my face.  Getting into bed I draw the covers back and snuggle against my husband, putting an arm around his waist and my head at his chest where he has made room by wrapping his arm around my shoulders.

I lie thinking.

“John?”

“Mmmm?” He turns the page and then strokes his fingers absentmindedly through my hair.  Whilst still as curly as ever, it is now sprinkled with generous dollops of grey.  John pretends to be miffed, saying it is unfair that while I look more handsome with white in my hair, he just looks older.  I tell him he looks the same as the day I met him, breathtaking.  It is true.

“What do you think about moving back to London?” I ask.

John’s hand stops mid-stroke, and taking off his glasses, sets them atop his book he has put down.  Turning to look at me, “What brought this on?  I thought you were happy at the cottage.”

“I am.  But with little John now here (“Do we really need to keep calling him that?”), we might want to live closer.  Be available for babysitting.  Just a thought.”  I shrug as if it is of little import to me, but inside I am excited at the prospect of spending as much time with our grandson as possible.

John resumes threading his fingers through my hair, teasing small strands out and letting them bounce back to their usual disorder.  I listen to his heartbeat as he thinks, knowing whatever he decides is right for me, too.  As I long as I have John I want for nothing more.   But still…

“What do you think?” He asks, his heart quickening.

“I think wherever you are, so am I.”  I tighten my arm around his waist, pressing my face to him in a hug.

“That’s not an answer.  I mean, whatever decision we make has to be right for both of us.  I know how much you love living in the country, but if you wouldn’t be happy living in the city again…”

I sit up so I can look at John directly.  It is on the tip of my tongue to make a joke about his hearing, but I refrain from doing so; I have learned there are times to make jokes and times to not.  And when John is serious, it is a time to not.

“John, the only place I need to be is where you are.  Yes, I love the country, and I love London.  And I love the baby, but you… you I love best.  So if you are happy, then I am happy.  What was it you said?  ‘One thing I know is that one of the only ways I can be happy is if  _you’re_  happy.’”

“Jesus, how do you remember every little thing I say?” 

“I remember because every “little” thing you say is important.  So what would you like to do? We could find a small flat near Katie and Paul and then we can see little Jo-, I mean, hmmm, John John, anytime you like.”

“John John, I like it.”  His eyes brighten, “What do you think about this?  We could rent a flat in London but still keep the cottage; it’s free and clear.  Katie and Paul won’t want us underfoot all the time and that way we can go to the cottage for a weekend, or a week, whatever, when we need the quiet.  I would really hate to let it go altogether.”

“Excellent idea, John!  You are brilliant!”

“Living with you it must have rubbed off on me.”  He shakes his head, disagreeing with himself.  “Yeh, right.”

I roll my eyes.  “We are not going to argue again, are we?”  But on second thought…  “Let us argue, then we can have make up sex!” 

“Uh, no.  Let’s _skip_ the argument and go straight to sex.” 

John is such a sensible man.

Bundling ourselves under the covers, as we caress flesh we have explored countless times, we listen to each other’s sighs of contentment.  At 66 and 71 years of age, our bodies do not respond as quickly or intensely as they once did, but the fullness in our hearts is more than enough to compensate for whatever our physiologies lack.  And, as thrilling as an orgasm is, even after all this time nothing thrills me more than to, quite simply, touch John.  To touch him with the pads of my fingers.  To touch him with my lips. It is as if every time I do, somehow I am made whole again…and again and again, a sensation I will never get used to.

When we are sated and John falls asleep, I lie up against the back of him and hold him in my arms, grateful for the profound sense of peace  gently washing through me.  Knowing that if he did not exist neither would I.  At least not as I now do; life would be many, many shades paler. 

“I love you, John,” I whisper.   My breathing slows in rhythm with his, my hand rising and falling where it rests on his stomach. 

And my last conscious thought before I go to sleep? 

“I cannot wait.  I cannot wait to wake up and spend another day with you.”


	18. We are never bored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Message from Sherlock: John is writing today's entry. Why? Because I love him and he likes to write, that's why! Is that not reason enough? Making John happy makes me happy. Pail List, remember? As I come to find out, it is a very fortuitous coincidence that today is the day he shares our story, for I find out he has kept another secret from me. I forgive you, John. I love you very, very much. (Not YOU. John!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you dear Burning_Up_A_Sun for your talented beta skills. You are my rock!

Bugger it all I’m cold.  Somewhere in my sleepy haze I realise Sherlock must be sat in the chair.  Watching me sleep. 

I’ve never understood the fascination.  I’m only passably interesting when I’m awake; I can’t imagine how dull I must be in full on sleep.  But, oh no, not for Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the man who designates a number 7 murder on a scale of 10 too boring to lift his arse out of a chair, _he’s_ mesmerized by a sleeping seventy-one year old man with a minor nasal blockage.  Maybe my snoring woke him up.  He says it’s music to his ears, this from a man with a passion for Bach and Rachmaninoff, but I know I must sometimes sound as if a wall of the flat is caving in.

Or maybe my husband is up tending the baby.  “Is John John alright?” I ask, my voice husky with sleep. 

Katie and Paul left the baby with us at our London flat for the night; it’s the first time John John’s stayed with us.  Katie wasn’t keen on it, but she and Paul were at an important work banquet last night, going on to spend the night at a posh hotel at company expense; they haven’t had a night out alone since before the baby was born.  Paul reassured Katie that if she survived childhood with me then their son would be in good hands. “John John will be fine,” he said.  I think the unspoken question in the room was would he survive _Sherlock._ But I’ve kept him alive, too, and he’s been in far more scrapes than a five month old could ever think to get into, so John John is staying with us.

“He is sleeping.”  Sherlock’s answer floats to me, deep and rich, through the dark. 

“Come back to bed then, love; you must be freezing.”  I pat the bed behind me.

“I am fine John, just sitting here a bit.  I will join you soon.”  He says he’s fine, but if I’m not wrong, I heard him stifle a shiver.

“Please, love.  For me?”  If he doesn’t have the common sense to take care of himself then I will have to emotionally blackmail him.  The chair creaks as he stands up, his bare feet padding along the rug until the bed dips beside me as he gets in.  Folding the covers over him, he snuggles against the back of me and I am warm again. 

I would be lying if I said my heart doesn’t feel warmer, too. 

* * *

 

The next time I wake up, I’m freezing again.  Wondering how I drifted so far from Sherlock, when I roll over to his side of the bed, I’m greeted by cold sheets.  Nope, no husband.  It often surprises me that as slim as he is he can provide so much warmth; there can’t be an ounce of body fat on him.

“Sherlock?” I whisper toward the chair.  Silence.  I open my eyes and look at the end of the bed, but the chair is empty. 

Wrapping a blanket around me, I get up and check the cot.  Also empty.  Dammit.  I feel guilty Sherlock has had to get up with the baby; he said he doesn’t mind, but we’re supposed to be taking turns.

Walking into the sitting room, the TV is turned on low to one of those insidious shopping channels.  For some reason John John has been fascinated by the hostess, a slim, animated woman with long blonde hair and blood red nails, and a way of ending everything she says as a question.  I don’t see the appeal.

But no one is watching the telly.  On the sofa lie Sherlock and our grandson, the baby nestled in his arms as they lean against the sofa back, both fast asleep.  They are most likely warm enough, but both are too precious to me to take any risks.  Getting blankets out of the closet, I add to the ones already draped over Sherlock and John John.  I give both a kiss as I bend down, lightly brushing my hand over Sherlock’s hair, and I chuckle to myself as I think how Greg used to like taking pictures of Sherlock at his most vulnerable.  I’m tempted to take a picture of Sherlock holding the baby and send it to him, but when I get my mobile out and snap a shot, I know it is just for us.   This is _our_ moment.

Not wanting to go back to an empty bed, I light a fire and sit down in my chair.  I will just read for a bit…

“John.”  My cheek is graced with a soft kiss, waking me. 

“You will get stiff sleeping like that.  Back to bed, come on, now.”  Groggy and already stiff, Sherlock takes my arm to make sure I don’t topple over as I get up.  “I put John John back in his cot.”  

“Mmmm hmmm,” I mumble, trying to wake up at least a little bit so I can stop and check on John John.  Looking down at the baby, his fist tucked at his mouth, I make sure his blanket isn’t wrapped too tightly around him.

As I gaze down on him I think how peaceful he looks.

I know how he feels. 

* * *

 

“Uh, honey.  What’re you doing?”  I ask my beloved as he dresses John John in two shirts, a jumper, thick corduroy bottoms with long pants underneath, a down coat, mittens, boots over 3 pairs of socks, a scarf, and a hat that covers most of his head and face.  What (very little!) skin is still exposed is slathered with sunscreen, and his arms spring out from his sides.

What the fuck.

John John doesn’t seem to mind, giggling at the funny voices and faces his grandfather makes as mounds of clothes are shoved on him, the poor child.  I can’t help but worry about heat exhaustion, and the fact that he is unable to move.

“I am dressing him.” 

“Yes, I can see that.  But he isn’t going to the North Pole; we’re just taking him two miles back to Katie’s house.  And where did all the extra clothes come from?  I know Katie didn’t bring them.”

“Frost bite is a very serious condition, John.  His limbs and digits are small and delicate; it would take very little exposure to permanently damage them.  I cannot imagine what disadvantage he would be at if he were to lose any.”  Sherlock doesn’t pause as he speaks, continuing to fashion our grandson into something that could be mistaken for a mound of clothes left for the laundry were it not for the bubbly laugh and the bright eyes sneaking out beneath the hat.

Putting my hand on Sherlock’s back, “Honey, why don’t you go get the car and I’ll finish, uh, dressing John John.”

At first Sherlock isn’t sure about this; he’s reluctant to interrupt his “bonding” time, but he is already dressed and we need to leave soon.

“Alright, but do not forget his blanket; I do not want him getting cold.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” 

After giving John John a kiss on his, mercifully still visible, nose, Sherlock wipes sunscreen off his lips. “See you soon, Peanut.”  “Peanut” watches granddad Sherlock as he backs out of the room, blowing kisses to the rapt face.

Peanut.  If I didn’t think Sherlock were so adorably smitten with our grandson, I would worry about his sanity.  Even at his most comfortable with me, he doesn’t get quite so goofy.   I sigh.  Just one more thing to love about Sherlock, and here I’d thought I’d found every reason.

Whilst Sherlock is gone getting the car, I rush to take two layers of clothes off John John, and after I put my own clothes on, I wrap him in a blanket;  Sherlock will never know his efforts weren’t completely appreciated.  Thankfully, John John’s face loses the red that said he was too hot. 

I’m done just in time for Sherlock’s text. 

**_Down at the kerb.  SH_ **

“Ok, co’mon.  Back to mum and dad’s.”  I pick up John John and his bag and head downstairs to drop him off before we leave the city.

* * *

 

“Why are we stopping in Cardiff on the way to the cottage?   And why are you being so mysterious about it?”

Don’t look at the road.  DON’T look at the road, I warn myself, unable to resist glimpsing in front of me; I am deep in self-preservation mode.  Sherlock’s driving hasn’t improved over the years.  I still feel as if every time we get in the car with him behind the wheel I’m taking my life into my own hands, but I can’t say that it didn’t feel that same way the day I fell in love with him.  Being part of Sherlock’s life has always been a dangerous proposition, and riding in a car with him is just an extension of that.

“Watch out…!”  A shout escapes me as he passes a lorry, the oncoming car in the other lane far too close for my taste.  Jesus fucking Christ. 

“Do not yell at me when I am driving!  If you do not want me to drive, then I can pull over…”  The car slows.

“I’m sorry honey; I’ll be quiet.  I’ll just uh, I’ll just look out the window.”  Turning my head from the road, I pat his thigh, taking care not to grip it so tightly he knows I’m terrified.  At least this way, if something happens, I won’t see it coming.  A vision of a fiery crash flits through my mind…

“Honey, I think I’m going to make an appointment with a lawyer; I need to get a will made.”  Shite!  Why did I have to bring that up _now_? 

The car slows again and Sherlock does pull over this time, turning in his seat to glare at me, his hands gripping the steering wheel.  I’ve no doubt were he not wearing gloves I would see his knuckles were a motley mix of white and red. 

“Really, John?  You think I’m going to _kill_ you?”

“No.  I’ve just been thinking about it, a will, I mean.  I’m not getting any younger, you know, and I want to make sure Katie and her family get something, especially if we, uh, die together. Not that I’m saying your driving is going to kill us,” I rush to add, “but, uh, things do happen.  Can we talk about this later?”  I look down at my watch; despite the way we’ve been hurtling down the road, I’m afraid we won’t make it to the bookshop on time.

Sherlock’s chin lifts and he breathes in heavily through his nose.  In as many ways as he’s changed in the years we’ve been together, there are mannerisms that have never left him, and this one means he’s having a minor snit.  He’ll be over it in a moment.  I pat his knee and try to relax.  I have to die someday, and what better way than with the man who gave me back my life?  I just don’t want it to be _today_ , though.

Restarting the car, he waits for a lull in traffic and pulls back onto the road.  Twenty more minutes to the city and, if we’re lucky, we’ll find a place to park close to the shop.

“You never did answer my question.  Why are we stopping in Cardiff?   And at a bookshop?  You can order anything you need online.”

I shrug.  “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I just want to look inside a book before I buy one, feel it.  You know, smell it.  Besides, I like bookshops.” 

“You are a horrible liar, John.  Always have been.  You have not stepped into a bookshop in years, and I do not know what you are lying about, but you _are_ lying.”  My love takes a hand off the steering wheel and, removing his glove, threads his long fingers through mine, seating their tips in the crooks between mine.  I am forgiven.  Not for lying, which I am, but for implying he will kill us with his driving. 

Not more than forty minutes later we find the bookshop and he parks the car.  We’ve arrived in one piece each, as God intended.  Thank Christ.  Maybe before we drive the rest of the way back to the cottage we’ll stop so I can down a couple pints; it’s well-documented that inebriation increases the odds of surviving a car crash. 

Walking into the shop I spy a sign in the window I’d rather Sherlock not see; I don’t want to spoil the surprise just yet.  Pointing across the street, “Sherlock, honey, look!  A sale on microscopes!”  A weak distraction, I know, especially as the business is a bakery, but I didn’t have time to give it any thought.  Whilst Sherlock’s head is turned, I pull him by the arm into the shop and he doesn’t see the sign.  Whew!  But stepping inside I see there’s no way to avoid him discovering my secret; two large stand-alone signs announce the book signing.  Two large signs it is impossible to avoid walking directly past. 

“Look, John. Someone with your name is going to be here today for a book signing.  And he is a doctor, too.  What are the chances…”

And then he sees it, the title of the book - The Consulting Detective and His Blogger.  His finger pointing at the sign, his jaw literally drops as he looks over at me and back at the sign again. 

Picking up a book, Sherlock looks at the stark cover.  It’s royal blue, the only picture on it a silhouette of two men’s heads.  Not us, but close enough.  Opening it, he reads the inside book flap, and then flipping through a few pages, the dedication, “For my amazing husband.  One hundred lifetimes together would not be enough.  I love you, John.”  Turning the book over, it almost gets lost in his large, slim hands as he smooths his fingers along the jacket.  Lifting it to his nose, he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply.

“John…”  Sound finally manages to escape his mouth, but not as much as he would like, I think.

“Yup.  It’s me.”  A huge grin breaks out on my face and I’m not sure if I’m prouder at seeing my name on a book or having outwitted the most un-outwittable person I have ever known.           

Sherlock opens his eyes and they shift to me, “But why does it say ‘a novel by’?  It seems you would have enough source material not to, well, not have to make things up.”

“It’s not a really a novel; it _is_ autobiographical, but when I sent the manuscript in on a lark, the chap who became my editor told me he kept laughing, saying there was no way anyone was that clever, that I had to have made the whole bloody thing up.  I have to admit I was peeved, how dare he, but I could see his point.  So I told him it was fiction.  He believed me, but he still had me ‘dumb’ down the detective. Twat.

“Had I never met you and seen with my own eyes how you deduce things, I don’t think I would have believed you were real, either.  You, my dear, are incredible, unbelievable, amazing…”  Leaning up to kiss my most delectable husband, I hear my name and rest back onto my heels.  Dammit.

“Dr. Watson!  Is that you?”  A middle-age woman, wearing a nametag that says ‘Welcome to Worthington Books, My Name is Celia”, must recognize me from my picture on the back of the book.  When she gets close, she extends her hand to shake mine.  “Good afternoon, I’m Celia, the shop manager.”

“John, please.  And this is my husband.”

“So pleased to meet you, Mr. Watson.” 

I am about to correct her when Sherlock gives the slightest shake of his head.  “Sherlock, please,” he murmurs to her, but he’s still looking at me, his blue-green eyes boring into me.

“Sherlock, then.”   She shakes his hand, holding onto it a few seconds too long.  “You must be very proud of John; he has an amazing gift for fiction; I wouldn’t be surprised to see the book become a bestseller. The level of detail is unbelievable; it’s almost as if he lived the stories.”

I have to turn away to hide my smile. If she only knew…

* * *

 

On the way home it’s quiet in the car, the radio set to a classical station that keeps losing reception, so Sherlock turned it off.

We didn’t stop at a pub to buy a pint, but I am relaxed and happy anyway, buoyed by the reception to my book.  Many who came to the table to have their copies signed said they’d already read it in just the week since it has come out, remarking how clever I am. And the detective in the stories?  He was a huge hit.  More than once I heard the comment “You’re a modern day Sir Arthur Conan Doyle”.  I could only dream.

I was surprised I was able to talk Sherlock into staying with me; I thought he would bolt off, take a walk around the area, too restless to sit with me for two hours.  But he sat nearby, quiet for the most part aside from the occasional deduction.  (“His wife is cheating on him with the barkeep”, or “Her cosmetologist steals from her purse whilst she’s getting her facial peels.”)  “Not now, Sherlock” I would mutter under my breath as I threw him dirty looks, afraid a customer would hear him and become offended.  He would look away, pretending he didn’t hear me.

We get home, and after hanging my jacket, I go into the kitchen to make tea.  Sinking into my chair, Sherlock is already sat across from me in his. Legs crossed and elbows on the chair arms, his hands steeple at his chin, something he so rarely does anymore.  His eyes pierce into me.

“John?”

“What, honey?”  I can’t stop smiling as I set my mug down by my chair and settle in.  I’m tired; it’s been a long day.

“You…lied to me.  And from what I can determine, it has been for quite some time.  No one writes and publishes a book in a few days’ time.” Sherlock’s tone is flat. 

My smile fades fast; I almost feel as if I am on trial.  Don’t be silly Watson, you’ve done nothing wrong.

“Did I keep from you the fact that it was published?  Yes.  I wanted it to be a surprise.  I thought you would be pleased, Sherlock, that _our_ story is in print.”

“So how long, John?  How long have you been lying to me?  Was it not you who said we should not keep secrets?”  The expression on his face, or should I say the lack of expression, doesn’t change, but his head cocks to the side as if it will help him read me. No minor snit, this one, he is well and truly angry.

“I thought you would be happy for me; I thought…I _thought_   you would be proud.”  It’s all I can do to keep myself from jabbing my finger in the air at him; I’m getting angry myself.  “The only reason I didn’t tell you I submitted it was because I didn’t want to look ridiculous if no one wanted to publish it.  You’ve never hidden the fact that you consider my writing abilities are, to put it politely, subpar, and I wasn’t going to subject myself to the ridicule if it didn’t work.  And by the time it was accepted, all I could think about was how pleased you would be when saw it.  I did it to make you _happy_.”

Can’t say I glimpse a bit of that happiness anywhere in the room right now.  Sherlock is still sat like a rock as he looks at me, his eyebrow now lifting as if saying, “Oh, really.” 

I’m hurt and confused.  One of the happiest moments of my life, and after working so hard not to tell him about the book because I wanted to please _him_ , and here he is _judging_ me?  As _guilty_?  How dare he.

I lick my lips, and as I am about to say it I know I shouldn’t, but I do; I can’t remember the last time I was this angry with him.  “You lied to me for two years, Sherlock.  _Two_ years.”  

I almost don’t see it, but his left eye twitches.  Just once.  And the stony façade is back in place.

“So, you have not forgiven me, have you.”  It is not a question.  As tonelessly as he speaks the words, I might as well be some clerk at the grocery where he’s inquiring after the lamb for Sunday’s dinner.  Hell, scratch that, the clerk would probably get a charming smile out of him. 

“Oh, yes, I’ve forgiven you,” I answer, even though he’s not asked a question.  “I’ve just never forgotten.  Every moment of every day for two years I felt like shite.  No, that doesn’t begin to describe the depth of sodding grief I felt every single fucking minute of every fucking day for two years.  I was dead, too, Sherlock.  Dead.  This, _this_ is different.”

“A lie is a lie, John.”

“Yes, it is.  And if yours was forgivable, then so is mine.  I wasn’t trying to hoodwink you; I wasn’t trying to make you look ridiculous.  I was just trying to give you a…a memoir.  To show you how proud of you I am.  World of difference, Sherlock…world of difference.” 

“And I was just trying to save your life so you _could_ write a memoir.”

 _Why_ is he being so obstinate? “You…you bull-headed…”

“Say it, John.  You ‘bull-headed’ what?”

“You bull-headed...nevermind.  You’re not _always_ right, Sherlock, and you’re _not_ right this time.  What’s got into you?”

Dropping the steeple and uncrossing his legs, he taps the arms on each side of him.  “Yes, John.  You are right; I am wrong.  I should never have lied to protect you.”

“That’s _not_ what I’m …”  But he has stopped listening.

Averting his eyes, he picks himself up from his chair and walks toward the bedroom.

I try again, talking to a back that is almost painful to look at it’s so stiff.  “Sherlock, that was thirty years ago.  You did what you needed to do, and I am so, so glad you did.  I wouldn’t be here to thank you if you hadn’t.  Can’t we just let this go and call it even?”

Pausing as he reaches the door, he says over his shoulder, “Two hours.  Give me two hours, John…I love you.” And with that he closes the door behind him.

I hadn’t even noticed how tense my body had become until I sag with relief at his last words.  We’ll be alright, I remind myself.  We will always be alright.  He’s given the signal that he needs time alone to think, and that after the two hours is up he will be ready to talk again. 

“Okay.  I love you too, sweetheart,” I tell him as he disappears. 

And that is that.  For the next two hours, anyway.

Not long after we got married, one of Sherlock’s epic pouts, three days’ worth to be exact, nearly broke us.  It took him much longer to forgive himself than it took for me to forgive him, and soon after he came up with the idea that when he needs time alone, he will tell me for how long; it’s never more than a few hours.  He hasn’t needed to do it often, but when he does, he always adds that he loves me; he doesn’t want me to worry he that he doesn’t. The whole thing works beautifully, giving us both time to calm down and bring us back to our senses. 

As for me, touched by Sherlock’s dedication to keeping our relationship healthy, not that he would know that’s what he’s doing, I have promised never to call him ugly names.  It’s been years since I’ve called him a twat, twit, wanker, or bloody git.  Not that I don’t think them from time to time, but I know in the end it’s best not to say them.     

I sit for a time, sipping my tea, and then another, when a low rumble in my stomach reminds me I’m famished. I nibble on a few crisps whilst I fix dinner and when I’m done, the two hours has passed. I tap on the bedroom door to let Sherlock know it’s ready.  When he doesn’t answer, I crack open the door to a darkened room.  He’s lying on his side facing away from the door and I can tell by his breathing he has fallen asleep.  Leaving the door open as I go into the room so I have some light, I see he never undressed, didn’t even get under the covers.  Picking up the duvet I fold it over him.  One arm is wrapped around a pillow, me I suppose, I think with a smile.  And in the hand that protrudes from underneath it is his mobile.  Gently removing it, I’m curious to know what he was doing.  I activate it and see it’s open to his text app; at the top it says “Daughter”.  He’s been talking to Katie. 

The last text is from him, “ ** _Always.  P_** ”

I smile.  Instead of the usual “SH” he uses for everyone else, he signs his texts to her with a “P”, Pére. 

Lying down, I rest my head on the pillow beside Sherlock and scroll up to the beginning of the texts and read.  The first time stamp is about an hour after he came into the bedroom. 

**_Hello, Katie.  It is Pére.  P_ **

Just a few seconds later she answers. 

_Pere, I know it’s you, silly.  Your name is in my mobile._

**_Oh, yes.  Right.  P_ **

_You are so funny.  I love you._

I see there’s a long pause before Katie texts again.

_Are you alright?  Is Dad okay?_

**_Yes, John is fine. P_ **

For about another minute there are no texts.  It seems to me Sherlock wanted to reach out to her but now that he has, he’s at a loss as to what to say.  How well I know that scenario.  The deeper he feels something the harder it is for him to get it out.

_Pere?  What’s going on?  Is it something with you and Dad?  If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay.  We can talk about something else if you like.  JJ’s already in bed and Paul is playing a game on the computer, so I’m all yours._

“Ahhh, good girl, Katie, you’ve always been so intuitive,” I think.  And then she had to wait again for Sherlock to talk to her.  Where in the world does she get her patience?

_You know, I have you and Dad to thank for marrying Paul._

**_Why do you say that?  We never met Paul until you had been dating him for several months, and by then you were already engaged. P_ **

_I know, but if it hadn’t been for you two I might not have married him, and certainly not so soon.  I thought I was too young to get married and I wanted to have an established career first.  Paul was still at Uni and money was tight.  It’s not at all like the obstacles you and Dad faced, but I thought about you two.  About what if we waited, and something got in the way.  I couldn’t imagine losing Paul because we were trying to be practical. What if I’d lost him altogether?  I might not have been as lucky as you and Dad to get another opportunity, even if it were years later.  If it’s right, it’s right, no matter.  So I didn’t wait._

Smart girl.  Doesn’t try to push him.  Looking at her long text, I can just imagine how her thumbs must have been a blur.  She’s not unlike Sherlock in that respect. 

**_It was different for us; I didn’t even know what love was.  And John, well, I’m not sure he knew what he was feeling.  I think it was hard for him because I don’t believe from the way he was raised he considered being with a man an option.  P_ **

_But what ‘if’, Pére?  What if you had gotten together?  Think of all the extra years you would have had together.  And if you hadn’t eventually gotten married?  So many more years you would be missing out on.  But anyway, enough about what if’s, I’m just glad you’re together now and you’re happy._

**_Yes, I agree, but_ **

_But, what?_

Silence

_What’s bothering you, Pére?_

**_What if Paul lied to you? P_ **

Ahhh, now we get down to it. 

_Lied to me?  Like about what?  An affair?_

**_No, no, not an affair; your dad would never cheat on me._**   ** _Something fairly innocuous, quite nice actually, but he hid it for a long time.  We agreed we would never keep secrets.  P_**

_I don’t know, I guess it would depend on what it was. Not all lies are the same. Some are to protect people. Some are to keep something embarrassing private.  Not all lies are meant to hurt someone, or to hide something they’ve done wrong._

Sherlock stirs beside me as he shifts his hips and burrows further into the pillow, but he doesn’t wake up so I keep reading.

_I’m not trying to pry, but if you want to tell me what he lied about I’m here to listen._

Another minute or so goes by.

_I’m still here and I’m not going anywhere.  Take as much time as you need._

I’m touched that Sherlock and Katie can have this conversation, and so proud of our daughter; she’s always been compassionate.  After the fact, I found out there were many times as a child she would talk to Sherlock about things she didn’t feel she could talk about with me, but I didn’t know it went the other way.  If she weren’t my own daughter I’d probably be jealous.

**_It is not so much what he lied about, but the fact that he lied.  And lied about it for months.  Perhaps years. P_ **

Years!  Bollocks.

_Do you love him?_

**_That is a ridiculous question, of course I do!  So sorry, I did not mean to yell. Yes, of course, I love him.  He is_ **

_He’s what?_

**_He is my life.  I would be lost without him. P_ **

The same for me, love, the same for me.  You are my life. 

I’m afraid to wake Sherlock, he must be exhausted to be sleeping at this time of day, but I scoot close enough to feel the firmness of his body against mine; I so desperately need to touch him.  Whilst I never doubt his love for me, it never fails to make my heart swell when I hear him say so.  Whichever version, “I love you” or “idiot”.

_Do you think Dad lied to hurt you?  But, no, you said it was about something nice.  I’m not going to ask what it was, it’s between you and Dad.  He would never hurt you on purpose, you know.  I just don’t want this one thing to get between the two of you.  You’re too good together._

**_I know.  Nothing he has done has ever been but for the purpose of protecting me.  Or showing me he loves me. P_ **

Katie texts a smiley face, and Sherlock responds with another.  Sherlock Holmes making smiley faces; now  _that's_ something you don't see every day!

_You are one of the bravest men I have ever known.  I didn’t get to see it with my own eyes, but I heard my share of stories.  Many times!  *Eye roll*  What is it that’s scaring you?_

I can’t help but suck in a breath.  As much as he has evolved over the years, “fear” is still a four letter word to Sherlock.  I know he’s fearful sometimes, as is every other human being on the planet, but to get him to admit it…?

**_Nothing scares me.  Certainly not your father.  How’s John John? P_ **

Nice save there, Sherlock.  _Very_   subtle.  Which of course means there’s something that does scare him.  I haven’t even a clue what it might be.  But he’s right when he says everything I do is to show him I love him.  Hurting him isn’t even an option.   

_JJ’s fine.  He’s grown two inches since you saw him this morning._

**_Has he…he has not! P_ **

_Ha ha!  Just seeing if you were paying attention._

**_Of course, I was. I must go now.  Thank you, Katie. You are my favorite daughter.  P_ **

_I love you, too.  Give my love to Dad?_

**_Always. P_ **

That’s it?  I’m not going to find out what he’s afraid of?  I was sure he would tell Katie. 

I set the mobile down, roll toward my husband, and lightly put an arm around him.  There are too many layers of clothes and blankets between us, but it is far better than being apart from him. 

Lying here, I beat myself up over bringing up bloody St Bart’s.  For not telling him about the book.  And I think about how very, very important Sherlock is to me.  I know I won’t lose him, but that doesn’t mean I can take him for granted. Not even one minute.  I would do anything to make the love of my life feel safe and happy and comfortable.  Quite honestly, it’s what I live for; he deserves no less.

In my lifetime I’ve known of only one couple who after thirty years of marriage still seem in love.  And though Sherlock and I have only been together eight years, I know no matter how long we’re together, however long both of us live, we will be like that.  It is as true to me as anything I have ever believed. 

But first I need to find out what is wrong; I don’t think it’s the book or the fact that I hid it from him.  “What’s bothering you, sweetheart?” I ask him silently, and, as if he heard me, he wakes up, saying my name.

“John?”

“I’m here, honey.”

Sherlock lets go of the pillow and turns to me, squinting as the light hits his eyes.  Dear Christ, I think as our eyes meet, how is it I can be lying right beside him, but yet I’ve missed him because it feels like it’s been days since I’ve seen him? 

His evening stubble is rough on my hand as I stroke his cheek. “I love you, you know.  The thought of hurting you is…unthinkable; it is the last thing I want to do.”

“I know.  I love you, too, John,” He says, kissing the palm of my hand.  I drop my head to nuzzle him, but he pulls back. 

Wha-? 

But Sherlock’s pulled back so he has room to unbutton my shirt, unzip my jeans…  ahhh.  Lovely idea.  But when we are both naked and under the covers, instead of making love, we just lie here.  I say “just”, but feeling his body pressed against mine is enough for the moment, and, saying this with all the authority of someone who holds a doctorate in medicine- lying flesh to flesh with my husband is quite…healing. 

Neither of us has the need to say anything.  My breath’s heavy with moisture where my face nestles in the crook of his neck, and my hand sits on the small of his back.  My husband’s hand is at the back of my head, massaging my nape, and his leg hooks around mine. 

Sherlock and me, me and Sherlock.  Any world around us has vanished. 

Sherlock has become such an integral part of not just my life, but my being; it’s as if I have physically absorbed him.  Since the time I’ve known him a ghost of his presence has been inside me, but in the time we’ve been together it’s continued to build like a crescendo that I pray to God never fades.  When my love is happy, I’m happy.  When he hurts, I hurt.  And when he’s confused and trying to figure things out, all I can think about is trying to help him navigate the maze so he can be content again.  It’s as if my purpose in life is to mirror him.  If that is true, I can’t begrudge it for one moment; I can think of no more satisfying, or worthy, fate.

Sherlock gives his heart to few… me, Katie, John John, but when he does it’s one of the most glorious things I’ve ever seen. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, sweetheart.  I honestly thought you would be happy to see me publish a book.  I thought it would be a wonderful present for you, but I see I went about it the wrong way.” 

Kissing my forehead and hugging me to him, “I am, John.  You have no idea how proud of you I am.  My husband, the author.”

I chuckle.  “Yeh, who would have guessed.”  Sherlock chuckles, too, his chest and abdomen squashing against me with each small burst of laughter.

His laughter subsiding, he asks me, “So how did you do it, John?  How did you slip past me that you wrote a book?”

The question is innocent enough, but there’s something in his voice I can’t quite read.  It’s not anger or accusation, something more like…worry?  I realise me keeping secrets is not what’s bothering him, and all I can think is how much I fucking love this man. 

“Why is it bothering you so much, love?  I mean, we withhold information all the time when we want to surprise each other with something and it hasn’t bothered you before.”  I slide my hand to the concave where his hip meets his abdomen, rubbing my thumb there so the intimate contact will help him feel safe. 

Instead of answering, Sherlock asks me another question; this time the worry’s sharper.

“Would you still love me if I were not the same person you fell in love with?”  He has created a sliver of space between us so he can study my reaction.  

I blink in surprise.  What is he talking about?  He can’t have been masquerading since I’ve known him, not even he’s that clever.   And as easily as he’s been known to disguise himself, he’s never done so with me.  I know who he is. 

“Yes, _yes_ , of course.  I will love you no matter what.  What is it, Sherlock?  What’s wrong?”  I find his fingers and fold them in mine, keeping my eyes fixed on him.  He wants to look away, but I squeeze his hand, telling him to stay with me.

“I…I fear I am losing my mind, John.  Not going mad, but I am not as…crisp as I once was.  I am becoming ordinary.”

If he were not so obviously concerned, I would laugh; at least a dozen times a day Sherlock dazzles me, out-observing me, outsmarting me.  If that’s his idea of “ordinary” I’m much more dimwitted than he ever thought.  But I don’t laugh, he’s serious.

“And why is it you think that?”  I ask gently.

“Just the other day I could not remember my passcode for a website; I was drawing a blank.  It has happened a couple of times in the last several months, something ridiculously simple escapes me and I do not think of it until hours later.  I do _not_ forget things, John.”

I’m relieved.  _That’s_ all it is.

“ _Most_ people lose some acuity as they age, honey.  As superior as your brain is there’s no reason to think it won’t do so as well.”

Sherlock contemplates this, but he’s not satisfied.

“That is true, John, and those incidences were annoying, but how is it I did not know you were writing the book?  How did it slip past _me_ , Sherlock Holmes, that you wrote an entire book and then had it published?  I have always known when you were lying and now…nothing. I do not even remember you going out to meet with anyone.  We never go anywhere without the other and I cannot recall you leaving without me.  My memory, it is gone.”

He sounds so terribly sad, it about breaks my heart.  Of anyone, I know best how important Sherlock’s brain is to him.  And to have it malfunction?  Sherlock is so used to, and has taken such pride in, such a high level of functionality that even the most minute glitch would alarm him.  I can only imagine he would feel he’s lost his life. 

I take him in my arms and hold him to me as tight as I can and he hugs me back almost as tightly. I do so out of reassurance, but I think he does so out of fear.

“Oh, honey.  I put the book together when Katie was in high school.  She was gone a lot, school activities, so I had time on my hands I wasn’t used to.  I was looking over old blog entries, thinking how I could do better than that, you know, clean them up and organise them.”

Sherlock’s arms around me relax but don’t let go.  “Oh… _oh._   So you were _not_ writing a book under my nose.”  I can hear him thinking it through, realising he’d come to the wrong conclusion. 

“Hell, no. You’ve seen how fast I type.  I’m pretty sure you’d notice if I were sitting at the laptop for weeks on end, even if you wouldn’t notice I hadn’t made dinner.”

“But…”  There’s more.

“But, what?”

“When did you meet with the editor?  I do not remember you having any appointments.”

“Oh, right.  I didn’t ever meet with him; I did everything online.  Emailed the manuscript back and forth.  The only thing that was hardcopy was the contract, and that I did one day when you were meeting with Greg in London.  Yeh, I did lie that day, told you to meet me at Katie’s; I was going to visit her and John John whilst you did your business.  Which I did after I left the lawyer’s office.”

“Aha!  I thought you were acting suspicious that day!”  As quickly as his exuberance over not having lost his ability to act as my personal lie detector surfaces, it dies down again.  “Still, there are those other things…” 

“If I may sound like a doctor here, forgetting little things is absolutely natural as you age.  I forget things all the time…and before you say anything, I know, I’m ordinary to start with, but it’s never anything important and it doesn’t disrupt my life.  I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but you _are_ human you know; your biology is the same as everyone else’s. You have wrinkles… ” I trace the laugh lines around his eyes, marveling at how beautiful he is, “…and you’re slower and less nimble than you used to be…  Yes, yes are,” I have to add when he frowns at my observation of his declining agility.  “So sorry, love.  It happens to the best of us.” 

“I do _not_ have the same biology as everyone else,” Sherlock asserts. 

“Oh, yes, you do.  Wrinkles, remember?”

“Of _course_ I remember, John.  I am not likely to forget what you said less than a minute ago.”

“Of course, not.  And Sherlock?  Even if you did, don’t you fucking _dare_ think I’m going to love you one bit less because of it.”

In a flash, Sherlock’s eyes brighten, and the intelligence shining through them is breathtaking.  What’s he thinking _now_?

“What now?”  I ask him, not quite trusting what’s going on in that super-brain of his.  He’s up to something; I know it.

“I know how to prove on a daily basis I retain my brilliance.” 

“And how is that?”  He’s going to make me work for it.  Git.

It’s hard to fully catch what he says as he answers my question between kisses, his lips burning a path up my neck to my mouth.  And as heady as his tongue is, teasing mine, his hand snaking between my legs to slide up and cup my balls, little is as thrilling as the words I finally understand. 

“I am married to _you._ ”

Dear fuck, I think as I’m pressed into the mattress, his weight now on top of me…

Sherlock Holmes is going to be the death of me yet.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next Dear Boy chapter will come out as a one shot. I wanted to write a holiday story of John and Sherlock's first Christmas and I settled on doing it in the Dear Boy world, which means I need to go back 8 years. It should come out in a couple of weeks; I hope you will join our boys for it. Chapter 19 in this story will be completed and posted after that, so it will come out in 4 or 5 weeks. Thank you for joining me on their journey, it means so much to me!


	19. Love is love at any age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Married just over 20 years, Sherlock and John head back to America where John will be interviewed for his latest book. Sherlock has his reasons for being reluctant to go, but he will do anything for John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I vote for renaming Beta to Taskmaster. Besides notes to correct punctuation (how did I get so lucky as to have a former English teacher as a beta?!), my beta makes the occasional comment that she wants a section clarified. Usually it is when I have been lazy and decided it was 'good enough', because I couldn't come up with the words for what I wanted to say. Fortunately for me, 'good enough' is not good enough for Burning_Up_A_Sun, and because of that I find the missing words. I believe my work is stronger for it. Thank you, hon.

Situated in a New York City hotel suite, we have come to promote John’s newest book, The Mystery of the Consulting Detective, but he cannot sleep.  Tossing over and over, trying to find a comfortable position, first the covers off, then back on again, he struggles to relax.  Finally, he leaves our bed, telling me he does not want to disturb my sleep; he will go sit in a chair.

Following him when he moves and draping blankets over him so he will not be cold, I sit in the chair near my beloved.

“Go back to bed, love.  Just because I can’t sleep doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”  He looks so tired.  John never has been a good traveler, a circumstance that has become markedly worse in his advancing years.   

Pretending to acquiesce, I head back to bed, knowing that if I do not John has no hope of sleeping, he will be too busy worrying about me.   I lie on my side for what may be hours, keeping watch until he finally nods off.  And moving the empty chair until it brushes alongside John’s, I wrap myself in a comforter and lay my hand on the arm that rests between us. What an idiot he is if he thinks I am able to sleep without him next to me. 

I am not sure I have said this before, if so only once or twice _perhaps_ , but have I mentioned I love John Watson? 

I do. 

More than anything.

As I watch John sleep I believe he has never been more beautiful.  Yes, his wrinkles have multiplied since we married just a little over 20 years ago, soft folds of skin he has to gently tug at when he shaves. Deep crinkles around his eyes, the result of decades of loving smiles.  A now sparse head of hair that he, with uncharacteristic vanity, tufts and gels to make it look as if he has more. 

But as beautiful as he is to gaze upon, it is not his outer beauty which captivates me so.  No, it is his constancy.  His endless reserve of love and patience and loyalty which fills me with wonder that he ever became mine.  That he is _still_ mine.  And because with just one look he tells me I am everything he ever wanted.  Because, even after all this time, with one touch he tells me I am all he needs to make his life complete.  Because with one gently spoken word, be it ‘love’ or ‘sweetheart’ or ‘honey’, he tells me there is no one he treasures more.  And that he can do this with Katie, JJ, Jacob, and Jennifer, too, making us each feel we are most valued?  How can one not revere such a man? 

John, you…you…bugger.  (Please forgive my vulgarity; it is true that long-married couples come to resemble each other, not just in looks, but in speech, as well.) I am about to tear up with sentiment for you and it is all your fault.  Single-handedly you have turned me into someone who coos at babies.  A man who would rather take a quiet walk in the hills with you than read the latest edition of Serial Murderer Monthly.  Someone who sits and admires sunsets whilst I hold your hand, entranced by colours which flow imperceptibly from one into the other making the next richer, deeper, more meaningful, much as it seems to be for you and me; often it is difficult to know where one of us begins and the other ends, so intertwined are we in all ways.  

And I would have it no other way. 

I tuck the comforter snugly around me, the minor discomfort of being in a chair instead of the bed compensated by the contentment of being next to John, and I fall asleep to the sweetest sound I know, that of my sleeping husband. 

* * *

 

“Have you seen my glasses, honey?”  John asks as he wanders around the suite, looking at the table by his side of the bed, in the bathroom (There is a telephone in the loo!  Who needs a telephone in the loo?!), even in the small refrigerator stocked with exorbitantly priced snacks and alcohol. 

I reach up and tap my head.

With a vague look of annoyance on his face, “Yes, I’m thinking; I just can’t remember where I left them.” Scanning the room, “I was using them just a bit ago; they can’t have gone far.”

“They are on your head, John.”

His hand patting the top of his head, John’s glasses nearly fall off as he finds them.

“Oh, yeah, right,” he grins sheepishly.

I peer at him; he _looks_  well, but…

“You are not nervous, are you?  You have done dozens of these interviews and I have never seen you so preoccupied.” 

“I know, Sherlock, but this is _New York City_ , and I’ll be on a major television show; this is the big time.  _And_ this host is known for being, well, a bit sharper than most, a bit more hard-nosed.  This isn’t going to be a fluff piece.” 

Humph.  The “big time”, as if London were a remote village in Iceland.

John searches the suite for some other “lost” item.  I imagine it is his dress shirt.  Or his slacks.  Neither of which he has yet put on, and we are set to leave in minutes. He _is_ nervous.  “You _are_ coming with me, aren’t you?”  John asks distractedly.

Where else would I be?  I look at him as if perhaps he has lost more than his glasses and his clothing. 

“Of course I am, idiot.”

“I love you, too,” John says reflexively, finally looking in the closet for his missing clothing. 

I cannot help but smile.  Twenty years and countless ways of telling each other how much we care for each other, more often than not this is our chosen  means of verbalising it, though the exchange confuses our youngest grandchild, Jennifer, now five years old. 

“Why are you calling Grandad an ‘idiot’, Grandpa?”  she asked me one day.

“Because he loves _me_ ,” I answered. 

Jennifer’s face scrunched up as she tried to sort through that.  “Does that mean I’m an idiot, too?”  I opened my mouth to respond, but before a sound came out, John spoke.

“No, Sherlock.  Don’t do it.”

“Do what?” 

“Just _don’t.”_

Ahhh. 

“No, Jennifer, you are not an idiot, you are the smartest girl in the world.”  I sat down and hugged her to me, her untamed curls in my face tickling my nose. “After all, you are your grandfather’s granddaughter.” 

John put an arm around my shoulders and kissed my head, endeared by the compliment; I did not have the heart to tell him I was talking about me.

So as I watch John fumble with his tie, I get up and brush his hands out of the way; it is almost time for the driver to pick us up and take us to the television studio. 

“And yes, you are an idiot, but you will be brilliant and charming as always,” I assure him as I firmly tug the knot and straighten his tie.  “No need to be nervous.  And when it is over, we shall head to Vermont and see what all the fuss is about over a few tree leaves.”  

After the interview we will head north from New York; it is the prime season for viewing the fall foliage change, a short side trip we will take whilst in America.  A trip to which I reluctantly agreed. 

“We have trees at home, John; we can watch leaves change from the comfort of our own home,” I told him when he suggested the trip to New York would be the perfect opportunity to check the item off his Bucket List. 

“But we’ll be practically next door, Sherlock; it’s not like we have to make a special trip.  You’ll have your roses winterised and I know for a fact that you’ll not be in the middle of any experiments.”

Humph.  I detest when he uses logic against me; he has become far too skilled at it.  No, that is not correct.  He has _always_ been skilled at it.  I want to think that, were I to marry again, I would choose someone less wily, but I cannot fool myself.  Even were I to marry again (And we know there will be no need), it would be impossible to love any other than my John. 

“If we must,” I sighed. 

“No, it’s not a ‘must’.  But I think you’ll enjoy it once you get there. Think about it, will you?” 

I do not have to think about it.  I have my reasons for not wanting to go, but I find it impossible to deny my husband any desire.  We will go to Vermont.

* * *

 

I sit just outside of camera range as John is prepped for his interview.  His makeup already applied, the crew adjusts the lighting and his microphone.  To have me in the studio is an unusual arrangement, one to which most media take mild exception, but from day one John has been adamant in his request: no Sherlock (Me!), no interview.  Non-negotiable.  I admit it is a request I find unusual as well.  We go nowhere without the other, but it is not as if I will be in another city or even another building; I will be in the next room.  When I asked about his requirement, John said it ultimately makes no difference to him whether the books sell well or not; it is not his intent to become rich or famous.  Neither is important to him.  What _is_ important to him is me; no amount of money or fame is worth missing out on even a moment with me.  (No, you may _not_ have him, he is _mine._ )

When the interview begins, I tune out John’s and the host’s voices, letting them fade into the background as I plan our itinerary for the next three days.   I smile as I catch snippets of John’s responses to the usual queries concerning the fact that in this latest book, the detective marries his blogger.

I glance at John and he looks more relaxed than he did before we left the hotel.  The subject of his books, of _us_ , is a one he takes pride in.  One with which he is comfortable, eager almost, to talk about.  His eyes are bright and amiable, his hands loosely folded in front of him. 

 **Host:  “** This novel has such a strong romantic element.  There were hints at mutual attraction in your previous novels, a subtext, if you will, but the two men have never been so transparently involved.  What led you to take their relationship in that direction?   If I were to guess, it would be the obvious fact that it parallels your personal life, many years of knowing your husband, then a romance.”

John chuckles.  He was expecting this.

 **John:  “** Even long before we became involved, I annoyed Sherlock with my, what he called ‘romanticization’, of his cases.   But for a long time it’s been no secret that the protagonists are loosely based on my husband and me, and their collaboration in the books reflect the years before we entered an intimate relationship.”

 **Host:**   “Are you surprised that, since now the couple has come out, you haven’t lost some of your core readership?  This is an unusual path to take for such a well-established series.”

I am curious to hear how John will respond.  There has been controversy surrounding the characters’ relationship.  Some reviews congratulated such a “bold” move, and others declared it a non-issue, saying it “adds depth and humanity to an already intriguing read”. 

 **John:**   “Am I surprised this book sold just as well, actually better, than the previous ones?  Excuse me if I put words in your mouth, but “despite” featuring gay characters?  Not at all. I wouldn’t be surprised if I lost some readers, after all there is still quite a large segment of the population who finds homosexuality uncomfortable.   But on the other hand, there is a large segment of the population whose sexuality is underrepresented in popular culture, whether in books, television, or films.”

 **Host:   “** In researching for this interview, I found little information about your personal life, from either before or after you started publishing; you seem to be very private.  Yet the way the characters’ lives mirror your own tells me perhaps you are loosening that stance. Is there an agenda to this book?  Is it your subtle way of becoming politically active?”  

I watch closely as, almost imperceptibly, John fidgets in his chair.  He has things to say that he is not used to saying.  Because we conjectured the conversation might veer in this direction he prepared a “statement”, but it is still difficult for him.

 **John:** “I wouldn’t say that I’m a political activist; if anything, you might call me a human activist, though in a very understated way.  To be honest, for many years I denied a certain truth about myself, that I am bisexual.  It is not a comfortable subject for me to discuss, especially in such a public forum, but I believe it is an important one. I know that if I hadn’t followed my instincts, instead had continued to try to live the life I thought I ought to live, I would have missed out on one of the greatest joys of my life.”

 **Host:  “** You mean your husband?”

 **John:**  “Yes, Sherlock.  I guess you could say having the Detective marry a man was my small way of helping normalise something that isn’t shameful and people shouldn’t feel the need to hide.  We shouldn’t have to deny our most basic needs if it doesn’t cause anyone else harm.  And I don’t see how loving someone of the same gender could hurt anyone else.”

John breathes a sigh of relief to get that out; I know it was not easy for him.  I, too, am relieved that the hard part is over.  The rest of the interview should be fairly easy, and thankfully the host is not as relentless as we had heard.

After a brief pause to review a few notes, the host looks back up at John.

 **Host:** “When you were much younger, before you married your wife, you lived with your husband, did you not?  Did your wife know you were bisexual?  Did you carry on your affair while you were married?” 

It is if John freezes, and the quick glance he throws to me, something he never does in an interview, tells me he is startled.  “ _Where the fuck did_ that _come from?!”_ his eyes blaze at me. 

I do not know; I am as stunned as he.  The pulse in his neck now visible, I fear John will be unable to contain his anger.  But his smile, while less friendly, remains on his face.  

 **John:  “** Yes, Sherlock and I were flatmates, nothing more, for 18 months.  There was nothing I needed to tell my wife since there wasn’t any affair.” 

 **Host:** “So you’re telling me that two healthy young men, living together, who _would_ eventually marry, were not intimately involved?

John’s smile tightens to the point it is almost a grimace.  My own heart racing, I have a desperate need to go over and hold his hand (that is, if I can pry it from the other), to tell him this bottom feeder is not worth the breath he will use to answer, but I stay rooted to my spot. 

 **John:**  “I am not going to _tell_ you anything more than what I just said; my private life is not your concern.   Now if you would like to continue discussing the book, I will be happy to.” 

I nod in approval; John can hold his own.  And not one vulgarity sprang from his mouth; I almost beam with pride at his restraint. 

 **Host:**   “I’m so sorry, I just assumed…”

 **John:**   “You know what they say about assumptions.”

Really?  Did John just call her an ass?!  I am beginning to wonder if he will sneak in a “twit” or a “twat” in somewhere.  I just may enjoy this after all! 

 **Host:** “I also read that the first book was loosely based on real cases, but in the sequels you created the crimes from square one, which makes me think of a remark you made that your husband once called you a ‘great conductor of light’.  I take that to mean he is an idea person and you are the one who he bounces those ideas off of.  Not to mention there is a distinct stylistic difference between the first book and subsequent books.  Did you use ghostwriter for the sequels?   Your husband, maybe?  I’ve read some of the blog he abandoned…”

“Enough!  John, we are leaving.” 

The crew stirs, their eyes shifting about as they look toward the assistant producer for guidance, stage-whispering “ _Sir_ …” and “Get the camera on him!” as I approach John. 

At first John is as befuddled as everyone else. His words tell me, “We’re in the middle of an interview, Sherlock…” but his eyes say he would rather be anywhere other than here.

“No, John, the interview is over.  They want sensationalism and that is exactly what they will get if you leave.  You do not deserve to be treated like this.”  I rest a steadying hand on his arm in case he has gotten stiff whilst sitting. 

I whirl toward the host.

“If you had done your _research_ , you would clearly see John authored all the books himself; no one else would indulge in such an appalling proliferation of semi-colons (“So sorry, John.”).  And frankly, he could use an editor who does not appear to have learned the English language in a barrio in South America as he does not have the wherewithal to correct his split infinitives or prevent him from ending his sentences in prepositions.  But you…”

Deductions upon deductions flurry through my mind.  Dozens of scathing remarks and cutting observations battle to release themselves from my mouth and reduce this woman to the subhuman molecule of bacteria she has shown herself to be. Blind fury darkens my mind and destroys my ability to articulate my vehemence. But in the darkness comes a ray of light, one word which shines brighter than all the rest, and it must be released…

“Twat!  You, madam, are a twat. 

“Come along, John.”  I pull at my husband’s hand, but when he does not immediately follow, I look back to see a one of the goofiest grins I have ever seen on his face.

“Twat?”

I grin back.  “Had I known uttering such a word would be so satisfying, I would have incorporated it into my vocabulary long ago.”

We cannot leave the studio, and the city, fast enough.  As vicious as the London tabloids get, none have dared to treat John in such a manner.  It is as if we have been sullied by the host’s malicious accusations, have been left with a grimy film on our bodies from a charmless, chaotic city which makes us long for the refinement of London, the tranquility of Wales.  We long for home.

Waiting outside in the frosty air for our transportation, John finally lets loose. “Christ, that woman!  The set of balls on her!”  He tries to keep his voice low so passers-by will not hear him, but he is enraged.  “Accusing me of cheating on Mary, of…of lying about writing the books.”  He turns to look at the building, as if deliberating to go back inside and give her a piece of his mind, but I put my hand on his arm.

“She is not worth your anger, John.”  Though I say this, I vividly conjure up multitudinous forms of retribution.  How dare she malign John; she is fortunate I only tongue-lashed her.  In my younger days she might have had the need to call security.  Quickly. 

“Where are your gloves?” I ask him, looking at his bare hands. 

Patting his coat pockets, then feeling around inside them, “I must have left them inside.  Damn if I’m going to go back to get them; I’d rather my fingers freeze off than run into her again.”

“Here, take mine, you are shivering.” I take my gloves off and hand them to him, but he shakes his head at them.

“No, honey.  You’re no warmer than me.”  John hunches his shoulders in an attempt to warm himself, cupping his hands in front of his mouth and blowing on them.  His breath leaves his mouth in billowing white puffs.

“Do not be so obstinate.”

“Ha!  That coming from one of the most stubborn men I’ve ever known,” but his eyes soften as he takes my gloves, knowing I will not back down.  “I love you, you know.”

“Of course, you do.  I am _very_ loveable.”  I smile back at him mischievously.  To distract him from the unpleasantness encountered in the interview, I add, “If you would like, I will enumerate the reasons why, though I warn you it will take some time…” 

“Yes, you are very loveable, sweetheart.”  Before the second glove goes on, John sticks his hand into my pocket, taking my hand in his.  “And yes, it would take an awfully long time to list all the ways in which you are…  Our car, thank Christ.  Let’s get the hell out of here,” he says, removing his hand from mine and walking toward the black limo double parked at the kerb, the driver stepping out to open the door for us. 

Before following John to the car, I hesitate.  This is it.  We are on our way.

* * *

 

I do not like this; I do not like it at all.  And I tell John so.

“I do not like this, John.”

“You don’t what, love?”

Standing in the car park, John’s head is turned away from me to admire the country inn, its expanse of wrap-around porch perfectly complementing the white clapboards and black shutters.  Beyond it, everywhere we look are multi-hued trees, a kaleidoscope of colours that would be impossible to imagine had one not seen them.

Arriving at the inn after dark last night, we were too late to take in the view.  If I were not so unsettled, I would admire our surroundings as well, but something more important occupies my mind.

Noticing I have not answered, John turns back to me and takes off his sunglasses.  Whether out of concern or from the bright light, he squints at me. “What’s wrong, honey?”

Does he not know?  Far too often he reads my mind and I do not understand why he cannot this time.  “I do not like it,” I repeat.

His face tilting up to me, the sun reflecting off his snow white hair, he tells me, “Kiss me.”

Humph.  My ever-romantic husband thinks every problem can be solved with a kiss.  But not this time.  This time I will not melt into him.  Pressing my lips together, I look down at him, immobile.

John sighs.  Dropping his chin and folding his arms, “Okay, have it your way.  We’ll stand here staring at each other until you decide you want to tell me.  There’s worse places.”  He again looks around us, but he cannot let the subject go.  “Is it because I won’t let you drive?  I know you think I’m being unreasonable, but you can barely stay on the correct side of the road at home. I can’t imagine having to stay on the ‘wrong’ side will be easier for you.”

I continue to glare at him, sharply shaking my head.

“Are you still angry about yesterday?  I’ve decided to let it go, and you should, too.”

Another sharp head shake.

“Sherlock.  I can’t go through every little thing that could possibly irritate you. Why don’t you just tell me what it is and we’ll shave off a few hours of whatever argument I’m sure we’re going to have.”

I open my mouth to tell him, but nothing comes out.  Instead I gulp air, unable to speak.

Seeing my distress, John moves closer and takes me in his arms.  “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere,” he says, laying his cheek against me.

Not going anywhere?  How does he know that?  How many times has he told me life is uncertain, we can never know what is coming next?  No, better to keep my thoughts to myself.

“It is nothing, John.  I am fine.”  Not waiting for an answer when I ask “Ready to go?”, I disengage from him though it is the last thing I want to do.  I want to wrap him in my arms, hold him tightly to me, and never let go. 

I see he is not convinced that whatever bothers me has so quickly vanished, but he does not argue as he walks with me to the car.  Sitting, I pull at my trailing coat so it does become caught in the door as John closes it for me.  Getting in on the driver’s side, he puts the key in the ignition but does not turn it, instead pivoting toward me and taking my hand.  Though his eyes are once again hidden by his sunglasses, I know they are searching mine. 

“What’s wrong, love?  What don’t like?  Don’t you like Vermont?  Do you want to go home?  I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.” 

His face is so kind, and I know that as much as he wants to tour the foliage, John will book a flight home in a heartbeat if I ask him.   He takes my glove off and circles my palm with his thumb.  “I love you.  I love you.  I love you,” his simple touch tells me.   As if I have doubt.    

And as much as I do not want to, because I love him, I tell him what bothers me. 

“I do not like that this is the last item on your bucket list.”  There.  I said it.

“We can add more things to do,” John says, obviously confused.  “Is that what’s bothering you? That the list has run out, so you think we can’t do anything else?”

My tongue slides along my lips; the cold has already dried them.  “I know it is not logical, but then nothing about loving you is logical, yet everything about it is.”  I stare out the window, unable to focus on the sight before me as I ponder the conundrum.

“Okay, now you’re losing me, Sherlock.  You don’t like that it’s both logical and illogical to love me?”

“What?”  I turn my attention back to John.  “No, that is not it.  Do you not see?  This is the last item on your bucket list, the list you made of things you want to do before you die.  And….”  I take a fortifying breath so I have the courage to finish telling him.  “I am not ready for you to die; I am uninterested in a life without you.”

John has more than once said that he wondered if it would have been best not have become romantically involved with me because I never worried about such things before; that something inside me is ill-equipped for the emotional realities of being in a relationship, even a happy one.  He said the extent to which I have bonded to him may be unhealthy.  But then he would quickly apologise, ruefully laughing that it is the same for him. 

“It’s not a maths equation, Sherlock; ‘x’ plus ‘y’ doesn’t equal ‘z’.”   Unbuttoning his jacket, John lays my hand on his chest, his eyes locked with mine.

“Strong and steady.  And if you also remember, I said ‘a hundred lifetimes is not enough’, so we have at least 99 to go.  I’m not going anywhere a second sooner than I have to, bucket list or not.  And you better not, either.”

I swallow, the thought of being without him making it difficult to breathe.  “No, John.”

“Oh, honey, I know this is a stupid thing to say, but sometimes you think too much…  You know, I have an idea.  We’re here a few days, so how about instead of going out we spend the day in the room.  We can, uh, make a new list?” 

Seeing the gleam in his eyes, I know a new bucket list is not really what John intends, and I like his idea.  Very much.  I need him close to me.

Getting out and locking the vehicle, we walk hand in hand back to the inn. 

* * *

 

Adjusting the gas fireplace knob to “on” and closing the drapes, I turn back toward the room in time to see John sprinkling silk flower petals onto the bed. When he is done, he turns on the half dozen battery-operated votive candles he brought with us, their electric flames dancing in the muted light; I have no need to ask him what he is doing.  While I am not immune to the mood he is striking, what warms me more is his commitment to keeping our relationship strong.  He is thoughtful in so many ways.

Two years ago, during a period of time when our sex life lay almost dormant, John brought home a book he purchased online in hopes we could revive the “magic”.  He had missed the closeness our sexual relationship had brought us, and I had, too. 

Sex for Dummies (The Very, VERY Senior Edition).  With disbelieving eyes I took the yellow and black book from John’s hand, outraged by the picture of two extremely old people (Male and female, of course!), one with a cane in their hand and the other sat in a chair with a walker nearby. 

“ _Really,_ John?!   We are _not_ that old and by no means are we…disabled.  You are a doctor for god’s sake; you must know it is natural to lose desire at our age.”  I shoved the book back at him, “Besides, if you did not notice, this is for _heterosexual_ partners, not exactly our area.”  I would have regretted the harshness of my words, but they did not extinguish the excitement in his eyes. 

“Yes, I was a doctor, Sherlock, but that doesn’t mean I’m an expert on geriatric sexuality  And besides, this has some very practical- ”

“Geriatric?!  I may be seventy-six, but I do not believe that qualifies for…for geriatric!”  I practically spat the words out.  We are _not_ old!

“Kiss me,” John told me in what I can only call his Captain Watson voice as it was a command, not an invitation. 

The moment our lips touched, I felt tension leaving my body, my agitation seeping out my pores.  Good work, Doctor.

“Keep kissing me and close your eyes,” John whispered.

“How can I when you are talking-“

“Shhh…” he crooned, puckering softly at my lips.

I shhhh’d, and soon I was almost limp as his mouth left mine, trailing down my neck, down to my clavicle…

“We do these things, John.  How will your book help?”

“Patience, love.  Patience.”

“I _am_ being patient.”

“No, I don’t mean right now...well, yes, right now, too, but I mean in general.  Skimming through the book the main themes I see are to be healthy, be ‘in the moment’, and do lots of nice, romantic things for each other.  It doesn’t promise our love life will be filled with fireworks like it used to be, but we can have a very satisfying one if we’re patient.”

While he had been talking, John had managed to get me undressed and into the Jacuzzi we had had installed on the veranda.  Such a resourceful man.

Thinking back to that little black and yellow book, I am grateful for it.  We had long known that sex is so much more than a physical act, but somehow since studying the book it is as if our whole life has become about making love.  In both body and spirit.  Giving time and thought to each other in ways we had not before.   I cannot say it is an unpleasant way to live life. 

When John joins me by the fire I cup his face in my hands, giving him a peck on the lips.  “I love you, John.”  And while I still feel anxious that John’s bucket list will soon be complete, I make the effort to push the thought aside.  I will live in _this_ moment.

“I love you, too, honey.  Always.”

As we gaze at each other, our eyes are not quite as keen as they used to be, but they allow us see all we need to see, two men who love each other more than the day they fell in love.  We undress each other, the air around our bodies warmed by the fire. We undress as if we have more time ahead of us in life than we have lived, as if we are one of those couples on the telly who is young and vibrant and beautiful.  We undress as the passionately in love couple we are, albeit with limbs that do not move as gracefully as they used to, with skin that is not as sensitive to touch as it once was. 

“John?”  I pause as I loosen his belt.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do you promise not to laugh?”

“Of course.”  (I am convinced he is figuratively crossing his fingers.)

“I have come to a conclusion, and it is a rather romantic notion…”

Having already unbuckled me, John unzips my trousers and allows them to fall to the floor, pooling at my ankles.   Unsurprisingly, when I look down at my pants, there is nary a hint of an erection. 

“Yes, love?”  He asks, kissing my chest.

I step out of my trousers and over to the bed, trailing John behind me.

“…and it is completely unscientific…”

Seeing as how I no longer seem to be helping him, John finishes undressing and crawls into bed with me, his hand now caressing an oh-so-slow-to-respond penis. 

“…but I think I know why it takes so long for me to get an erection, and it is not my age.”

“And why is that?” John asks, giving attention to said body part, coaxing it to life.

“Because all the blood that is supposed to give me an erection travels to my heart instead.  And then it is as if, because I love you so much, my heart has difficulty fitting in my chest.”

John’s hand stops moving and, raising his eyes to mine, looks at me closely.   I am sure he wonders if I have read something I am now regurgitating to contribute to the romantic moment. 

When the hint of moisture comes to his eyes, I am alarmed.  I did not mean to make him unhappy.

“John, I-”

“That is one of the most idiotic, most absurd, most…beautiful things you have ever said to me.”  And as he leans up to kiss me, there is a tap on the door.

“Housekeeping!” A thickly accented voice calls out.

We look at each other and then in the direction of the rattling doorknob. 

“Did you not put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door?”

“I thought _you_ did.  Shit.”

I throw the sheet over us as the door opens, unsure if I am quick enough to shield our naked bodies.

The young woman comes to a sudden halt halfway through the door.  Her eyes dart to the fire.  The candlelight.  Two elderly gentleman ( _Not_ geriatric!) in bed, presumably naked, in the mid-morning. 

“Señores!  Disculpame. Disclupame.  Lo ciento,” she apologises over and over as she backs out of the door, somehow having the presence of mind to grab the Do Not Disturb placard and take it with her. 

As soon as the door closes, John and I break into giggles. 

“Oh, my god, the look on that poor girl’s face; she’s going to be scarred for life.” 

As amused as I am by the situation, what captures my attention, what totally mesmerises me is the pure joy on John’s face as he wipes tears from his eyes that come from laughing so hard.  _This_ is why I smile, why I laugh…John is happy. 

John is happy… 

Kissing him on the forehead, I get up and throw the bolt on the door.  As much as I enjoy seeing John in such a state I think it best not to allow anymore housekeepers to wander in.

When I get back into bed, John snuggles under the sheets with me, his eyes shining as he asks, “Now, where were we?”

“I was telling you how much I love you.”

My fingers map the contours of his face, the outline of his jaw, my eyes following my thumb as its pad rakes the stubble on his chin.  He did not shave today and his face is peppered with white and grey hairs, the reddish tint from days gone by nowhere to be seen.

We spend much of the rest of the day making love.  Talking about things that matter and things that do not.  Lying quietly in each other’s arms, just being.  Being together.  It is a perfect day.

John is the first to break a long silence. “Thank you, Sherlock.” 

I am puzzled.  Are we now thanking each other for sex?  I understand proper manners, but this seems extreme.  If it is what John wants… “Thank you, too.”

“You don’t even know what I was thanking you for, silly man.”  He scoots closer and lays his head on my shoulder.

“I presume you were thanking me for sex.  While I find it an unusual thing to be thanking one another for, do know I appreciate it.”  John’s head looks to be at an awkward angle so I shift my shoulder to make him comfortable.

He chuckles.  “No, I was thanking you for being _you_.  You know, just telling you I’m glad for who you are.”

“Well, who else would I be?”  Even after all the time I have known him, sometimes the things John says make absolutely no sense to me. 

This time John sighs.  “I’m not being literal, Sherlock.  I know you don’t have a choice in what type a person you are.  It’s just a…well, an expression.  I’m just glad for who you are and that you choose to be with _me._ ”

“Then that is what you should have said.”

“Yes, yes I should have, you goof.”

I think about what he said about having had a choice to be with him.

“I did not have a choice, you know.  It could not have been any other way.”

“Yes, it could.”

“How do you mean?”

Reaching across me, John finds my hip and holds me to him. 

“You didn’t have to tell me you regretted not kissing me.  You didn’t have to open up your heart to let me in; it was locked up pretty tight, I think.  You could have let ‘alone’ protect you.”

“Really, John, now you are being preposterous. But then, apparently I have a predilection for preposterous people.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You are right, I do not.  But you, John, you are the exception.  To every rule I have ever known,” I tell him, kissing his crown and resting my cheek on it.

Flames flicker in the darkened room.  Autumn has brought an early dusk and whilst the candles for the most part have died, the fire continues to burn, its warm glow softly embracing us.

“Have you thought about what you would like to add to your bucket list?” I ask John. 

“What about yours?  Do you still have anything on it?”

“Mine?  Mine is the same as yours, save for the places and positions to consummate our love, and I believe we exhausted that portion of the list years ago.”

John laughs, awakening the butterfly in my stomach, causing it to flutter.  Flippity Flip.  “We did, didn’t?  Kept adding to them, too.”

“Yes, we did.  Though there is one item left on my list, one I will never complete…”

“There is?  What?”

“To make you happy.”

“Ahh, that you do love, that you do.  And you always will.”

“Do I really, John?  Do I make you happy?”  I know I test his patience, being no less a ridiculous man than the day we met.  And I know he loves me, but I often worry I do not make him happy _enough_.

“Now who’s being preposterous, eh? Do you think I would stay with you for 20 years if you didn’t make me happy?”  John caresses my abdomen, the palm of his hand smooth.  “Nobody, _nobody_ has ever made me as happy as you do.  No one’s ever come close.”

“Not even…”

“Not ‘even’.”

“Alright.”

“Okay, then.  Now that we have that sorted, let’s get back to _our_ list.  We might as well combine them.  What would you like to add?”

I contemplate John’s question.  Where do I want to go, what do I want to do, to make my life complete?   What do I have left to do that will say, if I do not do it, my existence will have not mattered?  

“Nothing.  Everything I need and want is right here.”

Sitting up so he can kiss me, “Me, too, honey.  Everything.”

* * *

 

For the next three days we drive the countryside, enjoying the colourful foliage, stopping at small shops to choose souvenirs for the grandchildren, taking breaks at scenic viewpoints to stretch our legs and take selfies we will add to our burgeoning photo collection.  (“Come’on love, smile.  Sherlock, _smile._ You don’t have to look at the goddamn things if you don’t want.  For me, love, please?”  Sigh.  “There you go, that’s good.  Beautiful!  Thank you, honey.”)

As John drives I watch his profile, realising it is useless to worry about how much time we have left in this world, just as it is useless to worry about the time “wasted” before we became a couple.  Useless to think about what has been or what will be.  Or what will not be.  What is important is that at _this_ moment, we are together; this moment is all we ever truly have. 

Shifting in my seat to easily face him, I lay my head against the headrest.  And as I watch him, my heart swells with love for the face I have known a lifetime.  A well-worn face, full of honesty and compassion.

A face that has given me a life more fulfilling and more joyful than I could ever have imagined.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter about makes me cry, the love they have for each other is so profound. I think I'm in love with old men in love. Especially these two. Lord.
> 
> This really would be a good place to end the story, and I thought about it. But there is a little more I want to do, so there will be at least one chapter more. My apologies for taking so long to get this one posted; I struggled to get the tone I wanted, but I think I got there. 
> 
> In case you missed it, I put out a Christmas chapter titled Only Our Hearts, which shows as Part II of this series.


	20. Not without me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And in the end the love you make is equal to the love you take ~ The Beatles
> 
> But for John and Sherlock can there ever really be an end? Most will answer no, their love will last forever. And they will be right.

John is dying.

It is an immutable fact, as much a truth as the Earth goes round and round the sun.  I think how John would laugh at this bauble of information floating to the surface of my brain.  But he will not laugh, not ever again.  Never again will I hear the giggle which starts deep in his belly, spreading out until his whole body shakes with joy. 

John is dying.

I sit in my chair and stare out the veranda window.  It is a beautiful Welsh morning…the sky free of clouds, the buds on my rose bushes ready to burst into bloom, birds chirp from a nearby tree.  But it is wrong, all so wrong.  There should be dark storms in the sky, howling winds, a fierce Earth angrily proclaiming that one of the finest men to walk its soil will soon be laid to rest beneath it.

John is dying.

I go to the kitchen to boil cups of tea for Katie and me; I have acquired John’s lifelong habit of making tea when I am unsettled.  I cannot say it calms me, but it gives me something to do. 

John is dying.

John is dying.

John…is dying.

As much as I repeat the phrase to myself, I can make no sense of it.  They are three words that, in any reality, do not belong together.

Katie comes out from John’s and my bedroom; he wanted to take his last breath at home.  Our home. Her red-rimmed eyes meet my still clear ones.  Walking over to me, she leans into me as if using my frail body to keep her upright, hugging me. 

“Thank you, Pére; you have always been so good to Dad.  You made him happier than I ever saw him.”

I know she means well, but I do not know how to respond to this, for all I ever did was love him.  What else could I do?

Breaking our hold, she wipes her eyes and blows her nose, tucking the sullied tissue into her pocket, forcing a false smile to her face.  She nods, indicating it is my turn to say ‘goodbye’ to John.  The time comes close. 

Katie looks around the sitting room, not quite sure what to do.  She told Paul she would meet him and the kids soon; giving me and John time alone, she will return later.  But she is reluctant to take the step out the door that says she has now said goodbye forever to her remaining parent.   

“You do not have to go.  Here, have a cup of tea.” I reach for a mug and offer it to her, the tremble in my hand threatening to spill liquid out the top.  I do not tell her it is not for her I want her stay. 

Katie takes the mug and kisses me on the cheek.  “I love you, Pére.”

My throat constricted, I nod, hoping she sees in my eyes how very much I feel the same.  How grateful I am she is here; I cannot do this alone.

Taking a shaky breath, I move wooden limbs toward the bedroom, each small step seeming as if a mile.  This last I do not mind.  The longer it takes to get to the room the longer it is until I have to face the unthinkable, the unbearable. 

I stand in the doorway.  The blinds are closed, shutting out the bright sun, the light in the room coming from a small bedside lamp.  The benign scent of pansies wafts from the scented wax warmer on the bureau.  The warmer is practically hidden amongst the dozen and a half framed photos propped up, facing our bed.  Photos of Katie and her family.  Of Mary, sitting in a rocking chair cradling a tiny baby, Katie.   Of siblings and parents long gone but forever held in our hearts.  Of John and me. 

I look back uncertainly to the sitting room. 

“Go,” Katie says gently.  “He needs you to be with him.” 

Turning back to the room, my eyes rest on John.   I have no need to remind myself he will not be with me much longer.  I see it in his pallor.  In the infrequent, shallow breaths raising and deflating his chest.  In his eyes as they open, wearily watching me walk into the room.  It is one of his rare lucid moments and my heart leaps as I see the light in his eyes.  As I see John, _my_ John.

I smile as I move toward him, willing my eyes to hide their sorrow, but I know I fail him.  Again.  For I see in his eyes the compassion that says he only thinks of me.  I blink back my tears, wondering what I ever did to deserve this kind, noble man.

More to stall for time than from any real need, for Katie has already done what she could to make him comfortable, I adjust his pillow, moisten his lips, smooth his blankets.  And instead of sitting in the overstuffed chair Katie moved near to John, I walk around to the other side of the bed.  Lifting the covers, I lie down and lean lightly against him, my head just far enough away so I can still see him.  So, as he slowly turns his head in my direction, he can still see me. 

I reach for his hand under the covers.  Cool to the touch, it is thin and delicate.  John has become so slight it is almost as if he is not here, as if he is a ghost of himself. 

Listening to his breaths, praying fervently they will not stop, not yet, _please_ not yet, I talk to him, my voice low and quiet as I tell him stories of our life together.  Stories from our days at Baker St, the day we married, stories from other, seemingly ordinary moments which have woven our lives together.  Have made us _us._

And as I talk, it is as if I go back in time.  As if there would never be a time one of us would have to be alone without the other.  Married for almost thirty years and friends for twenty-five before that, I cannot remember a time he was not part of my life.  Cannot remember a time when he was not completely essential. 

I do not know for how long I talk, but I talk to him until I have almost no voice left.  Until his breaths slow and there are no more.  Until, though his eyes are open, still fixed on me, there is no light left.    

Pressing my finger to his wrist, I let it sit there far longer than is reasonable to ascertain Death has stolen him from me, but even though I know it is true, I still cannot comprehend it. 

The pulse of my existence is gone.

My John is gone.

I let flow the tears I have been holding back for too long and, leaning toward my husband, I kiss his lips.  Lips that will never again move against mine.  Lips that will never again release warm breath that gives me life.

“John…John...John,” I whisper, resting my head on his shoulder, my arm across his waist.  It is this one word which encompasses all I have ever felt, all he has ever been to me.  I whisper it again and again.  Over and over until I can no longer speak.

I am so tired.

 

* * *

 

Katie sits by the bed, creasing and re-creasing the folds of the stationery page.  She doesn’t have the presence of mind to do anything else.

She thinks she had felt all the pain she could possibly feel saying goodbye to Dad, had felt a depth of grief she would not have to suffer again anytime soon, if ever.  But she is wrong. 

Minutes earlier, though she hadn’t wanted to disturb them, she hadn’t been able to keep herself from checking on her fathers; several hours had passed without any sign of Pére.  She would just pop her head in to see if there were anything Dad or Pére needed.  But what she found shocked her to the core.  Not only was Dad gone, but so was Pére. 

At first she thought they had just fallen asleep, they looked so peaceful.  Pére, his arm lying over Dad, his head resting on his shoulder.  Dad’s head turned toward his husband, lips almost touching him.  But as she got closer, she realised they were _too_ still, the room too void of sound.

And that is when she knew that in one day she had lost both of her remaining parents.

Standing up, Katie leans over the bed and straightens the duvet, gazing at the faces that will forever be linked together in her mind.  She knows she should call the funeral home, but she can’t do it, not yet.  She can’t bring herself to separate the two men who, though they are no longer aware of their surroundings, would never want to be away from each other for one moment, even in death.

One more time she reads the note she found in the chair sitting by the bed.  It is in Pere’s hand.  No longer the elegant script she once knew, it was written by someone who was longer steady. 

_My Dearest Katie,_

_If you are reading this it means I have joined your father._

_I would like to think my passing will cause you no pain, but I know a heart as tender as yours, a heart much like John’s, has room for even an insufferable man as me.  I am more sorry than you know that I to add to your grief._

_Lest you suspect otherwise, mine is a natural death.  As I write this I do not know for certain what will take place, but I know the thought of living without your father is more painful than any can be and if I have now passed, it is from sorrow.  From knowing I will never again be near the man who brings me such unspeakable joy.  A man who is able to look past all my shortcomings and yet still find me worthy._

_I do not believe in an afterlife, but should there be, I will miss you greatly._

_All my love,_  

_Pére_

Katie wipes her nose one last time, and folding the note into thirds, lays it on the bureau.

“I love you, too.  I’ll miss you so much, Pére.”  Kissing Dad on the forehead and Pére on the temple, she leaves the room, knowing that maybe this is as it should be.  She can’t imagine either one of them living a life without the other.  

* * *

* * *

 

 

“I demand a retrial!”

“But, I don’t understand, Mr. Holmes.  It is _everyone’s_ desire to come to Heaven and you have been already been admitted.” 

“Well, maybe ‘everyone’ does, but _I_ do not.  Your information obviously lacks veracity and I will not tolerate this outcome!”

Striding up to the bench, with but one lift of The Judge’s eyebrow I give pause and take a step back.  It will not do to make Him angry.  From a metre away I continue pointing at the print in front of Him.   “If you will once again refer to my records, you will see I am arrogant, selfish, belittling of others at any opportunity-”

“Mr. Holmes, I apologise for interrupting you,” He says as He ruffles through a stack of documents several metres high, “but that information is many, as one would put it in Earthly terms, decades old.  The characteristics you mention reached their peak in your early thirties.  Beyond that point you exhibited increasingly frequent instances of kindness and thoughtfulness.  Many years’ worth of altruistic acts amply counterbalance any of the less desirable traits you wish to emphasise.”

While I do not believe I deserve to spend the rest of eternity alongside those truly worthy of residing in Heaven, my motivation for arguing to be redirected to Hell is based on one reason and one reason alone, to be with John. 

Since the time I died I have not seen my husband, and surely if any one belongs in Heaven, John Watson does.  Determined to find out if perhaps I missed John in passing, whilst the Judge took a break to confer with His council I surreptitiously looked in The Book, the one listing those who have entered the Pearly Gates, but no John H. Watson is listed, no John Hamish Watson, or JH Watson.  I see no variation of his name listed anywhere.  The only conclusion I can come to is that John has gone to Hell, therefor so shall I.  

The Judge looks down at a page He pulls out.  “At the age of 35 you faked your own suicide and, at great inconvenience to yourself, remained far from home, away from all whom you cared about for two years to ensure their safety, saving their lives.”  Looking back up, He smiles at me.  “As an aside, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know Mr. Moriarty has his own room downstairs.  It causes me no lack of sleep to know his thermostat is broken at its highest setting.”

Refocusing on the matter at hand, as it is neither a surprise nor a consequence to me that Moriarty is forever damned, “The incident at St. Barts and the two years pursuing Moriarty’s men is exactly what I am talking about,” I assert.  “That was the very definition of a selfish act.  The sole purpose for my actions was not to secure their safety.  My purpose was to avoid the distress I would have experienced had any of them come to harm.  It was all about _me._ ” 

‘Sherlock Holmes  1,  The Judge  0’, I think with a smirk that would do John proud.  This is much easier than I thought it would be.

But to my dismay, He pulls page after page out of the large stack and proceeds to list my “good deeds”:

“At the age of 47 you dove into the Thames to save a drowning dog, causing you to nearly perish from the pneumonia you contracted.

“At the age of 58 you said the words ‘I love you’ to John Watson, at great discomfort to you as you were never a man given to verbal affection.  It was one of the happiest moments of his life.

“At the age of 67 you stayed up with your grandchild, who had had a mild case of colic, so your husband could sleep.

“At the age of-”

I interrupt Him to respond to His accusations. 

“The dog was the only ‘witness’ to a heinous crime and I required his assistance to identify the murderer.  I spoke those words to John because…because…” and my heart stutters at the thought of him.  I miss him with an ache so pervasive were I not already dead I think it would kill me. “…because I thought it would scare him off, leaving me in peace.” (Liar!  Liar!).  “ _And_ , the only reason I stayed up with JJ was because I knew if John did not get sufficient rest he would be unbearable to live with, ruining my day.” This last is not true, either.  The only things I could not bear were to see my grandson in misery, and to see my husband agitated due to lack of sleep.  I would, I will, suffer any unpleasantness to see to my husband’s happiness.

“These are not isolated incidences, Mr. Holmes; I chose them at random and there are many, many more.  In fact, much of this pile of paperwork you see details caring deeds you performed on behalf of others.  And while you would like to disagree that you did them for their benefit, the fact remains it was the end result.”

The Judge pushes the papers aside and, resting His elbows on the desk in front of Him, says, “Acts of kindness are predominantly not of an unselfish nature.  _Most_ people, Mr.  Holmes, do things for others because it brings them happiness to do so, because they care.  They are about gesture and outcome, not only intent.  I do think you are deceiving yourself when you persist in believing everything you do is for selfish motivations.  I am sorry to tell you this, but at heart you are a kind and giving man.”

My shoulders droop. 

Sherlock Holmes – 0.  The Judge – All.  

I have lost. 

“I am well aware Heaven is not your first choice, but given time I’m sure you will come to see it is an ideal location.  To aide you in your transition, I’ve secured a private room for you to rest until you’ve had time to adjust to your new surroundings.”

“No!  No!  Send me to Hell, please!”  I cry.  “ _That_ is where I deserve to go!  Send me there, I demand of you!”  I bellow at The Judge as I am led away, knowing that even though my panicked plea is heartfelt, my arrogance in making demands of _Him_ may aide in changing His mind so I can go where I want to go. 

Where I _need_ to go.

Further and further away I am taken away from The Judge, all but forgotten as He turns to the next in line. 

Taken into a spacious room and guided to lie down on a bed so plush I have only seen similar furnishings in Buckingham Palace, the light around me grows faint, and fainter, until I am enveloped by darkness and I fall asleep, exhausted.

So deep is my sleep it is as if I die all over again…

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock, honey, wake up.”

Before they reach my ear, whispering, “I love you, sweetheart,” warm, soft lips kiss my brow.  My cheek.

My mouth.

“John…” I breathe, "John..."  I leave my eyes closed, knowing it is but a dream.   I want so desperately for it to be real, but I know it cannot be, for John is another world away.  I wonder if perhaps I am in Hell after all.  To be taunted with the feel and sound of the one thing I wish for beyond all else, yet cannot have, is the antithesis of ‘heavenly’.  When I get up I must make a complaint.

A hand rubs my sternum.  “Sherlock?  Wake up, honey.”

I squeeze my eyes tighter against the assault.  Too real are John’s voice, the feel of his lips and hand on me.  I will lie here for a few moments more, be with John while I can.  John…

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, quit being such a stubborn arse and open your eyes!” 

Jolted by the command, against my will my eyes fly open, knowing that as soon as I do he will be gone and I will be alone again.

But I am not alone.

In front of me are eyes filled with such gentleness I feel as if I could drown in them.  A mouth whose ends slant up into an impish smile, the tip of a rosy tongue teasing its entrance.  Gone is the pallor, the deep wrinkles, the skeletal-like physique.  This is not the John I last saw, the John who died.  This is the John I saw the day we met.  The day I have long known is the day we fell in love.  While I do not care what age he appears, to me his face is always the very definition of beauty, I am glad not to be reminded of the moments so heartbreaking there are no words to describe them.

John’s hands cup my face, his touch gentle.  “Hi, sweetheart.  I’ve missed you.  God, how I’ve missed you.”

“John!”   I throw my arms around him, hugging him to me, burying my face in the crook of his neck. “John…John…” 

“Owww!”

I loosen my hold, about to let him go.  “I am sorry.  So, so, so sorry!”  The words rush out of my mouth in a torrent of apology. 

“No, don’t you dare let me go.  Don’t you fucking dare.”  And John folds me into his arms so tight I myself fight the urge to grunt in discomfort.  But I do not.  Never has pain felt so good.

I do not know for how long we hold each other, for how long we murmur “I love you” and  “I’ve missed you” to each other.  However long it is, it is not long enough and never will be, but there is something I have to know.

“John, I thought you were not in Heaven?”  I ask him, pulling away so I can look at his face.  I cannot get over how young John looks.  “I looked in The Book and your name was not there.  And I have not seen you anywhere since I have been here.”  I grip his hand, afraid he will leave me again, his hand clasping mine just as tightly to assure me he will not.

“Oh, honey,” he says, nestling his nose into my hair and pressing his lips against my head.  “You just didn’t look far enough in the back.  I’m in there, in the same index as you.  It’s a section just for soulmates, for couples who were fated to be together.  Forever.”

John looks at me, seemingly transfixed by my eyes, until a thought crosses his face and he smiles a huge smile.  “I heard about your argument.”  John starts to chuckle, the force of it nearly swallowing his words.   “Only you, love, only you would argue with God.”  His laughter, what a beautiful sound, takes over and his whole body shakes with his mirth.  “Dear God, how I love you,” he says, an even more beautiful sound.

“It was a tad presumptuous of me, was it not,” I say, the sound of my laughter mingling with his as we sink into the bed, tangling up into each other.  It is breathtaking to feel his body against me.  No longer are our muscles stiff with age.  No longer are our senses dampened by the years.

Kissing his neck, his chest, his sweet, sweet mouth, I wrap my arm around his waist and bring him impossibly close.  Against his lips, I ponder out loud, “I wonder what kind of rules there are in Heaven.  Guidelines for what we can and cannot do.”

John disentangles himself and jumps out of bed, (No!  Do not go!), but before I have time to scramble after him, he is back, holding something in his hand and a glint shining from his eyes that I know oh so well. 

“What is that?” I ask, and lying down close beside me he lifts what he holds above our faces and shows me the cover.  It is a brochure for Heaven.  (??!!)   “Why do we need a brochure?  We are already here.” 

“I found it whilst I was waiting for you.  You asked what we can and can’t do in Heaven.  Well, right here inside the first page is your answer.”

Unfolding the brochure to its full size, the paper is blank.  Blank except for one bold-font statement –   **Following is a list of activities you are to refrain from engaging in while in Heaven:**

“But John, the page is blank.”

“Exactly.”

Ahhhhh…

Dropping the brochure off the side of the bed, he rolls toward me, his firm thighs pressing into mine as he brushes his hand through my hair, his fingers winding through my curls.   “Christ, I always wondered what these felt like.  I can’t tell you how many times those first years I dreamed of touching them like this.”

“Touch all you want,” I encourage, my voice growing husky in anticipation.  “Just do not ever leave me again.”

“Never, my love.  Never.”  John shakes his head, for just a moment his eyes growing dark with the painful memory of when we were last separated, but the cloud disappears and his eyes once again radiate with happiness. 

“I’m not going anywhere, not without _you_ , my dear, dear boy.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten months I have been writing this story (yes, I’m slow, lol) and it has been one of the greatest joys of my life to do so. I have literally cried thinking it would one day come to an end, but, the happy part for me is there are more stories to be written! 
> 
> For those of you who have joined along, thank you so, so much. My only wish is that you got even a fraction of pleasure reading it as I did putting it down. 
> 
> Eternal thanks to my friend and beta, Burning_Up_A_Sun. Obviously she overflows with patience to have put up with me and this story for nearly a year, but she is kind and nurturing and has, I believe, helped make me a better writer. *Squishy hugs* (She’s a writer, too. Go check her out here on AO3!)
> 
> I also have to give hugs to a few other friends who have been so incredibly supportive and whose ears I depend on. Thank you, Devisama, Queenladyanne, and Thortonsheart!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Together Again, Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3904579) by [Devisama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devisama/pseuds/Devisama)




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